


Tabula Rasa

by violetsmoak (ErtheChilde)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DC Animated Universe (Timmverse), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Amnesia, Angst, Anxiety, Bright Vivid Colours, Danger, Drama, Enemies to Lovers, Family, I'll Protect You, Introspection, Jason dyes his hair back to red, JayTim Week, JayTimWeek2019, M/M, Memory Loss, Pining, Prompt: Soulmates, References to Depression, Romance, Secret Identity, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Soulmark Tattoo, Soulmate Aversion, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Temporarily Unrequited Love, a Lie, do not copy to other sites, hand holding, soulbond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-08-17 19:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20183281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErtheChilde/pseuds/violetsmoak
Summary: Tim and Jason have known they are soulmates for years, though neither has said anything about it. Tim thinks Jason doesn't know, and is just trying to live with it. Jason thinks Tim knows but doesn't care, which is fine with him, he thinks the soulmate thing is a crock anyway. But one night, a minor mishap forces them to confront the issue head-on, leading to a series of events no one could have predicted.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This story uses characters, situations and premises that are copyright DC Comics, Inc. No infringement pertaining to graphic novels, television series or films is intended by violetsmoak in any way, shape or form. This fan-oriented story is written solely for the author’s own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
> 
> **Canon-Compliance:** Follows the New Earth continuity, with elements of New 52 (ie the ones that don’t completely contradict everything that happened pre-Flashpoint). Ignores Rebirth completely. So, up to about 2016 in terms of publication dates? Robins War happened, but Red Hood hasn’t met Artemis or Bizarro, and nothing bad has happened to Roy ffs!
> 
> **Beta Reader:** I'll get back to you on that.
> 
> **Author's Note(s):** So, there's an action scene in my upcoming chapter of _Philtatos_ that's kicking my butt and refusing to cooperate with me, so I figured I'd take a break from that and work on something else, just to keep the creative juices flowing. So here's my second story for JayTimWeek/Month. Enjoy!

“Three cheers for the happy couple!”

The south wing ballroom of Wayne Manor erupts with the raucous shouts and applause of a hundred and twenty reception attendees. Tim’s congratulations get lost in the din, but he does catch Dick’s eye and flash him a thumbs up.

Seated at the high table, his older brother leans in and kisses his bride, which causes more cheering and catcalls from the guests, and makes the normally unflappable and newly named Barbara Gordon-Grayson blush.

Tim turns away and pastes a smile on his face as the Davenports, a senior couple and two of Wayne Enterprises' most influential shareholders, approach him.

_Time to be ‘on’ again…_

A generous mix of family friends (most of whom are vigilantes or heroes), and GCPD officers, fill the ballroom. These are interspersed with a few Haly’s Circus performers, and the requisite number of elite guests required by the Society pages of the _Gotham Gazette_.

Bride and bridegroom sit at the head table with their respective entourages, engaged in animated chatter. Babs and her maid of honor Alysia dissolve into laughter as Dick says something to Damian, who scowls and turns redder by the minute. The Gordon family is there, the Commissioner conversing in stiff politeness with his ex-wife Barbara, and Bruce is in full “Brucie” mode. In the background, Alfred directs the hired staff with his usual decorum and efficiency.

Across the room, Cassandra drags Stephanie over to the dance floor. At a smaller round table near the bride and groom, Duke just misses being speared with a fork by his girlfriend when he tries to sneak a piece of Izzy’s cake. Helena flirts with both Luke and Kate and Tim’s sure Selina is somewhere in the house stealing something to lure Bruce over to her place later.

It’s rare to have so many members of the family together in one room, and so Tim does his best to ignore the lingering dismay at the glaring absence in their numbers.

Dick and Babs look at each other now and again, like they’re the only ones in the world, and he makes an effort to find it adorable. He bolsters the jovial front he’s been wearing all night, reminding himself that his happiness for his brother and new sister-in-law isn’t something that needs faking. It took so long for them to sort everything out between them; it goes to show that being soulmates doesn’t equal an automatic perfect relationship.

_I know _that_ better than anyone._

It’s just getting more difficult with every passing hour to maintain the graceful Timothy Drake-Wayne façade.

“It will be your turn next,” Mrs. Davenport informs him, while her husband nods along. “Since Richard and _dear_ Cassandra have found their matches, you’re the only one left.”

Tim’s smile becomes a little more forced. “Well, there is Damian.”

The demon brat looks as if he swallowed a mouthful of peppercorns as Brucie leans over and ruffles his hair, laughing his raucous fake laugh.

_Now I’m glad _ _Dick didn’t ask me to be his best man, or I’d be the chump stuck up there._

Not that he was that upset when he heard the news.

Tim’s distanced himself enough from the loss of Robin to accept Damian needs as much help as they can offer if he is ever to be a ‘real boy’. Little gestures like this from Dick are part of a larger plan. And it was endearing, in a way, to see the kid stomping around in the weeks leading up to the wedding, trying to check off a list of best man duties he’d printed off the internet.

And dissolving into teenaged fury when innocent things went wrong or when the groom teased him by flouting what Damian considered ‘according to convention’.

_And then there was that bachelor party he organized…_

It would seem extreme trampoline parks were a thing; also, getting banned from said parks within an hour for trampolining while drunk was a thing.

“Yes, but he’s still so…_young_,” Mrs. Davenport says, bringing him back to the present. Tim perceives how she hesitates on the best word to describe the youngest member of the Wayne family.

“It’s fine, you can call him a prepubescent terror. I always do.”

“Oh, Timothy!” Garish laughter as if he told the most hilarious joke of the season. “You are such a character. Why haven’t you found your someone yet?”

Tim catches sight of Steph once again, dancing with Cass and looking carefree and blissful and in love. And this time it’s a bit harder to experience only joy for his siblings, more of a struggle to fight the pang of hurt and jealousy that rears its head.

“You’re almost eighteen,” her husband remarks, interrupting his thoughts. “Most people find their matches much younger. Eleanor and I met when we were fourteen.”

“Oh, it was a _beautiful_ summer in the Hamptons.”

“And it seems like youth today are finding each other earlier every year.”

“My sister and Stephanie didn’t,” Tim points out, only somewhat strained because that one still stings.

He and Steph had been together for most of their teenage years. She hadn’t possessed a soulmark, and Tim’s…would lead nowhere. He truly loved her, and if things were different, he knows they would have had a happy future. Lots of people whose marks don’t match are.

But then the day Spoiler and Black Bat met, they’d shaken hands, and everything fell into place. He’ll never forget either of their eyes—Steph bemused as her mark appeared for the first time and then exploded into color across her forearms; Cass puzzled until she realized what was happening. Then her face became an open book of joy rivaled only by how she looked when Bruce told her he intended to adopt her.

Faced with their happiness, it was only natural that Tim took a step back, much as it hurt to do.

“Perhaps your soulmate lives in another country,” Mr. Davenport suggests; it is clear he is not picking up on Tim’s reluctance.

“Oh!” his wife cries. “You should go on that television show they have now! You know, the one where they try to help you track down your match? I can’t remember the name, but it’s something like _The Amazing Race_ or _the Bachelorette_.”

“Perhaps yours is younger than you. That happens sometimes.”

“Yes! May-December relationships aren’t that uncommon with your generation, I hear.”

“Or maybe they’re dead,” Tim suggests, and though his tone is light and friendly, his words shut them up in an instant.

Because if very well could be true.

Tim’s never shown off his mark in public, and he told Steph that exact story when she asked all those years ago. At the time, he wasn’t even lying.

Soulmarks develop around puberty and last the duration of the lifespan of the shorter-lived partner. Some people are born with several, the way Dick was, and some only share platonic or familial bonds, like Alfred and Bruce. Others have none at all. When a soulmate dies, the mark associated with them vanishes.

_That’s because most don’t come back from the dead._

Still smiling at the now cringing couple, Tim takes his leave, letting them stew in their faux pas as he wanders toward the bride and groom’s table. He’s reached his limit.

Not wanting to crouch down in the middle of their group, he gestures until his brother sees him and makes an excuse to Babs. She’s following his gaze, offering Tim a worried look, but he smiles and shakes his head, trying to telegraph ‘_It’s nothing. Go back to your celebration.’_

Dick is red-faced and his eyes brighter than usual when he gets to Tim; people been plying him with generous amounts of alcohol all day. “Hey, Timmy, what’s up?”

“I think I‘ll make my way out,” he replies. “Do a bit of patrolling and then turn in.”

“Tim…”

Dick’s expression becomes concerned, and Tim shifts in discomfort.

“Someone has to be on the streets while you guys are slacking,” he jokes. “You know it took an Act of Alfred to get Bruce to take the night off, right?”

(It was also pointed out that if any of big players had planned anything tonight, probability and precedent suggested they would try it at the Gordon-Grayson reception.)

“You don’t have to do that! I’ve already got one brother missing.”

“Consider this my wedding present. You get to stay and enjoy _your_ party with the rest of the family.”

“You’re just trying to worm your way of giving us a real gift,” Dick accuses, but the words lack malice. With a surreptitious glance around to ensure they aren’t being overheard, he lowers his voice and asks, “Are things getting bad again? Do you need to talk? Because Babs won’t mind if I duck out for a bit.”

And he’s always doing this, checking in with Tim, even years after it’s been an issue.

There’s a distinct possibility Dick has noticed how uncomfortable the atmosphere is making him, despite him doing his utmost to hide it, to keep from casting a dark cloud over the festivities.

And Tim _should_ be okay.

Bruce is back from having lost his memories, Damian’s stopped his determined attempts to sabotage or kill him, his relationship with Dick is almost normal again, he has his team and place with the Titans, and there hasn’t been a major crisis in Gotham for about a month which is a record.

Yet he still feels raw and exposed, ill at ease in his skin.

Bruce has been questioning him a lot more, criticizing the way he handles not only cases but projects at WE. Tim worries there’s less time for him to recover between being Tim Wayne, CEO, and Red Robin. And the Titans are getting to the age where many of them want to strike out on their own or pursue more civilian interests—jobs and schools and a normal life. He respects that, even if he doesn’t understand it.

He has never had a normal life, and never will.

But he does have more and more days now where he looks at himself in the mirror and wonders how he’s supposed to keep doing this forever. Can’t figure out how Bruce has managed it for so long. Tim suspects he’s becoming little more than his daytime public persona and his nighttime alter ego.

_Who exactly is Tim Drake?_

Instead of voicing any of this, though, he musters up a comforting smile for his brother and assures him, “There’s nothing to talk about. It’s like every day. Just one step at a time, right?”

Dick’s expression clears then, and he nods, relieved. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“And Dick?”

“Yeah?”

“Congrats.”

“Aw, thanks, Timmy.”

A bone-crushing hug later, and Tim’s car peels out of the estate parking garage, still ignoring the growing pit in his stomach.

He returns to his apartment in the Theater District, shedding his suit and tie in a pile that Alfred would have a coronary over if he were there to see it. Jumping in the shower, he scrubs himself of any traces of his cologne or other identifying scents he might have picked up at the reception and tries to get himself back into a clearer headspace.

He pauses for a moment at the sink, trying to shake off the lingering, bone-deep exhaustion. Several prescription bottles line the mirror—various sleeping aids, most of which don’t help anymore (but the rebound insomnia of stopping them isn’t worth the trouble). These days it’s only the heavy-duty sleep narcotics that work when he needs to turn his brain off for a few hours.

Among the personal pharmacy are several combinations of anti-depressants he tried in the past few months. Most of the time he powers through it, the way he’s done his whole life, but in recent weeks Tim’s noticed things getting hard again. The helpful alerts he sets on his phone don’t always convince him to leave his bed and even video games lack the usual draw. He sometimes gets lost in his head for hours; on bad nights, he hesitates a second longer before shooting a grapple line or dodging a knife. In rare moments, he considers his sleeping pills a little too much consideration, at which point he calls Dick or Connor. Talks to someone so he isn’t so _alone_.

As he dries off, Tim stares down at his right wrist, examining the complicated knotwork design emblazoned there. Swirls of crimson and gold loop in and out of each other, before cutting off along his forearm.

Everyone has a soulmark, an arrangement of swirling shapes across their skin; each is distinctive to the individuals bonded by them. They first appear when a person is in the general vicinity of their soulmate, manifesting as a colorless pattern of darker and lighter shades of melanin. Those patterns fill with bright, rich colors upon physical touching one’s mate. When pressed together, they interlock in only one way and retreat when contact stops.

Soulmates who have reciprocated bonds sport their marks in full and everlasting display. The sight is both beautiful and frustrating to see, even on his family, as he’ll never experience that himself.

His mark might be a stunning amalgamation of scarlet and gold, twisted into a mandala upon his wrist, but it will never be permanent. While it’s been a while since Jason’s made any energetic attempts to kill him, Tim’s resigned himself to living without a completed bond; tolerance is about the only thing he can hope for from his predecessor.

Finding Steph when they were younger had been a joy and a relief. Her not having a mark meant they both had a chance for a fulfilling connection. Until Cass.

Tim forces himself to stop dwelling on it and shoves the bleak thoughts down behind the wall he puts everything uncomfortable and not cohesive to whatever task he’s given himself. Instead, he busies himself with covering up his mark using the spray-on cover that doesn’t fade with water or perspiration, only coming off when scrubbed with a special soap. One of Bruce’s earliest and more practical inventions, since Brucie Wayne and Batman couldn’t have a soulmark in common.

Bruce covers his pretty much all the time, but Tim’s only been covering his when he suits up. He lives his life in disguise, he doesn’t want to hide such an important part of himself when he’s off the clock.

He heads down to the lower levels of his Nest, gets dressed while having the computer scan for trouble. The program calculates probabilities for where violence will crop up, where he should begin his patrol. He hopes for a busy night, something to distract him from his convoluted thoughts.

As usual, he intends to start his rounds off in Tricorner, and then go through Chinatown—which is when he notices movement on a camera that concerns him.

A familiar gleaming scarlet helmet.

_Red Hood._

He debates with himself for several minutes.

On the one hand, it’s his regular patrol territory; on the other, seeing the other vigilante tonight, while his mood is already so low, isn’t something he wishes to contend with.

He clenches his fist.

He knew of Jason Todd for a year before discovering the second Robin was his soulmate. By the time he wanted to do anything about it, the older boy was dead, and Tim consigned to grieving in secret.

Then Jason came back, but it was almost worse than him being gone because he hated him. Without having ever met him.

Even now that he’s mellowed out (sort of), Jason appears to reserve more dislike for his successor than anyone else in the family, not counting Bruce and Dick for obvious reasons. Red Hood and Red Robin have run into each other enough in and out of costume that there have been ample opportunities for Jason’s soulmark to make itself known. That Tim has seen nothing close to resembling it means one of two things: either the other man hasn’t developed his mark yet, which is possible albeit rare, or he has, and like Batman, always keeps it covered.

Which says more than enough about his sentiments on the matter.

Between Jason refusing to acknowledge their connection, or just not being aware of it, Tim prefers to believe the latter, if only to make himself feel better. There’s no point in bringing up the soulmate thing at this juncture. He decided years ago to respect the status quo, for the simple reason it’s less painful than the alternative.

All that being said, he doesn’t enjoy watching Jason get in trouble, even more so when the situation is avoidable and he’s near enough to help. At the moment the big idiot is courting a potential gang war.

_Sometimes protecting someone means protecting them from themselves and their bad choices, I guess._

Static crackles through the comm in his ear, and then he hears Batman’s low growl. “What’s going on in Chinatown?”

“Why am I not surprised you’re still listening to the comms at your son’s wedding,” Tim sighs. “Nothing. I’m handling it.”

“Are you sure?”

“B, I’ll help A drug you every day for a week,” he threatens. “And you know we both can and _will_ find new and interesting ways of doing it.”

There’s a huff on the other side of the line. “…Noted. Reach out if you need backup.”

“You’ll be the first.”

“You’re lying.”

“Wow, you must be a detective or something,” he deadpans. “Red Robin out.”

Jason is the last person he wants to run into right now, but Tim’s also been cultivating a few informants there and he can’t have that jeopardized.

_Looks like I’m going to Chinatown. Hope Lynx is in a good mood…_

He wonders if tonight he’ll end up getting beaten up, or just insulted. He’s not even sure which would hurt more.

⁂

Jason goes flying out of the upper story of the restaurant, followed closely by a very tiny woman wielding a very big sword. She reminds him of Cheshire, with a shade less lethality.

Actually, if it were Jade, he would end up critically injured when she lands on him, using him as a cushion against the pavement. He manages to turn his body to land in a way that won’t break his back—though his right side will be a giant bruise tomorrow—and scrambles to his feet.

_This is one of the reasons I avoid Chinatown._

Things never go well for him here, especially not since that thing with the Su family. It’s just better to avoid the place. But before that, he and the Ghost Dragons at least used to get along—professional courtesy and all that, along with an unspoken agreement not to step on each other’s toes. 

That’s over, apparently.

All he’d wanted to do was ask some questions. One of his stool pigeons passed him some information on a human trafficking ring; according to him, it was based on Chinatown. It would seem sex slavers were luring young women over to the United States with the premise of work and accommodations. Then, upon arrival, the girls were hauled into a life of sexual servitude.

Jason didn’t even go in guns blazing this time or wearing the helmet. Just a domino and a hankering for some barbecue pork bun.

_So, either someone tipped them off what I was coming around for, or this kid in the mask has something to prove._

There’s a slow curl of heat moving up the back of his left wrist and up his arm, and his first thought is he’s been cut. Except while the sensation is familiar, it isn’t the liquid warmth of blood.

The woman moves fast, and a beat later her sword is swinging downward. Jason’s hands fly to his holsters, thinking he’s going to have to break out the guns after all when there’s a _clang_.

Suddenly there’s a bō staff in front of his face, catching the sword inches before it slams into Jason’s nose.

_Ah. And there’s the _other_ reason I avoid Chinatown._

Because in the past year or so, it’s been part of the patrol route for a certain Timothy Drake.

A.k.a. his replacement.

A.k.a. Red Robin.

A.k.a. his _soulmate_.

No wonder that warmth in his hand was familiar; the soulmark must have reacted to the younger man’s approach.

After a brief tussle, there’s the sound of a grapple line firing, and then Tim flies upward, ridiculous cape fluttering, still holding the struggling woman.

Her sword stays on the ground.

“Oh, hell no,” Jason growls, because this is _his_ business, damn it!

When he reaches the roof where Tim’s carried off Jason’s would-be-murderer, he notes they are standing close together, conversing in rapid Cantonese. Jason’s rustier at that than he’d like, but he gets the gist when the woman stalks right up to him and begins yelling and gesturing.

Then she shoves him and pushes away; a smoke bomb goes off, and then she’s gone.

Tim makes no move to go after her.

_Which, seriously?_

Jason stalks over, looming over the shorter man and touching his hand to the still holstered gun in his belt in an implicit (and mostly baseless) threat. He’s always amused at just how much of a height difference there is between him and his replacement, and tonight he makes a point of lording it over him.

“You guys looked awfully cozy there, Timbers.” Which shouldn’t bother him, but he can’t fight a twinge of irritation. “Care to share with the class what your little tête-à-tête was about?”

The cowl covers Tim’s face, but Jason can imagine the judgemental stare.

“She said your poking around her territory will jeopardize her investigation into the sex traffickers.”

“_Her _investigation? She’s the damn head of the Ghost Dragons!”

“Yeah, and she’s also an undercover operative sent by Hong Kong PD, which I’m only telling you, so you don’t decide to go and kill her for apparent crimes.”

And that was _not_ what he was expecting.

“How do you know this?”

“She told me. She’s one of my CIs.”

“And you believed her?”

“Cass looked into her for me. She’s legit, even if she’s a little…unorthodox.” Tim’s head tilts to one side, considering; with the cowl it makes him look like his avian namesake. “You’d think you’d appreciate that.”

“On the list of things I _don’t_ appreciate, you showin’ up while I’m chasin’ a lead is one of them,” Jason growls. “Don’t you have a party to be at?”

“I ducked out early.”

“Well, _that’s_ lame.”

“Not as lame as someone who ignores the fifteen invitations he was sent.”

Ah, and now they’re back on familiar ground.

“Pfft, I’ve seen enough Brucie to last me several lifetimes.”

“Yeah, but it was for _Dick. _All you had to do was show up—” his mouth twitches here; Jason can’t tell if it’s amusement or irritation, “—in jeans, even.”

“I’ve been dead once; I don’t need Alfie murderin’ me for that big a faux pas. And somehow I doubt Barbie would appreciate if her wedding photos included Dickiebird sporting a swollen eye.”

Tim sighs. “What are you fighting about _this_ time?”

“Other than the usual stuff? We’re not. But I’m sure he’d put his foot in it at some point and need a nice bit of cognitive recalibration.”

“And you, the perfectly innocent party in all this, would happily provide that?”

“Call it a civic duty.”

Tim shakes his head, but Jason thinks it’s done in amusement this time, instead of exasperation.

“I don’t know how she can settle for that birdbrain,” he continues. “How does she stand bein’ around him so often without wantin’ to punch him in the face every time he opens his mouth?”

“Maybe not _every_ time.”

“Point still stands.”

“Well, they’re soulmates,” Tim says vaguely, distant like he’s not paying attention to what he’s saying. He fiddles with his wrist computer, giving no indication that he is aware of anything else.

Jason’s pretty sure that’s not the case.

After all, he’s practiced in the art of pretending not to feel how his soulmark warms the closer he stands to Tim. There’s no question Tim’s learned to do the same.

It might be hypocritical of him, but that makes him angry somehow.

“As if that explains it all,” Jason sneers. “Come on, Replacement, I thought out of all of them, your whole logical-scientific-question-everything-Klingon-mind wouldn’t go for that hokey soulmate crap.”

“Vulcan.”

That brings him up short. “What?”

“It’s Vulcan culture that’s more focussed on logicality and empirical data-gathering. Klingons are more combat-oriented and tend toward more aggressive means of…” He trails off when he realizes Jason staring at him. “What?”

“You complete nerd,” Jason tells him. “No wonder you left the wedding early. I bet socializin’ with normal people probably stressed you right the fuck out, didn’t it?”

Tim gives a noncommittal shrug.

“Havin’ a soulmate doesn’t mean people should be together,” Jason goes on, filled with the sudden need to hammer home this point. “Look at all the examples from history—Cleopatra and Antony, Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, Bonnie and Clyde—” He ticks the couples off his finger. “They were all soulmates and they all either made each other miserable or got each other killed.”

“You can’t apply a few historical anomalies to every soulmate pair,” Tim counters. “Life circumstances skew the data.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that fate shouldn’t decide if people will magically work out!”

“That’s not…” Tim appears frustrated, at last, putting down his wrist computer and clenching his jaw. “It’s not supposed to _work out_ _magically_. It’s about finding the person who completes you. You still need to work at it. It’s not all magically going to fall in place, and you’ll be happy forever right away. Even soulmates don’t get to live perfect lives.”

_Ain’t that the truth, _Jason muses, considering Tim.

“Sounds like you _want_ a soulmate,” he points out, a little stiffly, and what the hell possessed him to say _that_?

He wonders what the kid is going to say now, or if this is the day their careful pretense, the lie of _not knowing_ gets shattered.

Luckily, though, Tim avoids opening that can of worms.

He takes a step back from Jason, looks away and mutters, “It’s not relevant to the Mission.” Which is a total cop-out, but Jason will take it. “Anyway, if you’re done causing trouble here and riling up the gangs, I’ll take my leave.”

“Wish you would.”

Tim shoots him an unimpressed glare—or at least, that’s what it seems like to Jason. “Don’t make me come back here. And for god’s sake, at least call and congratulate the happy couple.”

He grapples away rather than allow a witty retort; Jason watches him go with a scowl. Once he’s sure the other vigilante is gone, he tugs the glove off his left hand, frowning at the whorls of crimson and yellow retreating down his forearm and back to his wrist.

His soulmark appeared one night a few evenings before the Garzonas incident. Jason vaguely remembers swinging through an alley to escape yet another argument with Bruce and knocking out a bunch of thugs threatening a kid. He’d been so buzzed on adrenaline and fury he hadn’t noticed the warmth in his wrist. He only caught sight of the mark itself when he returned to the Cave.

And then he spent the night wondering if one of the assholes he knocked around was his soulmate. It wasn’t a comforting idea, and he’d decided then and there to cover up the mark and forget about it. The disappointment about his potential soulmate had been a contributing factor in a long line of shit the universe decided to dump on him that sent him to Ethiopia. If he was linked to scum like that, he wanted to be as far as possible from Gotham.

It never even occurred to him to imagine the kid in the alley was his match. Hell, it didn’t even register when he discovered that Tim Drake had been following Batman and Robin around for years.

Only that day at the Tower, when Jason made his first move against Batman and attacked his replacement, did he finally make the connection.

His mark reacted the minute they were in the same room, spreading across his skin and swirling about seeking its partner. Jason had been so far gone with rage that the sight of it had made him angrier, made him hit harder—because if he didn’t meet Tim before, it meant their bond hadn’t been strong enough to keep him from making the biggest mistake of his life.

It meant he was supposed to meet him after being ripped apart and rebuilt as a weapon.

Luckily, or not, Tim was unconscious before the manifested completed, sneaking out from beneath the long green gauntlets of Jason’s fake Robin suit.

And if he _did_ happen to notice before passing out, the kid hasn’t said anything about it.

_Probably hates me and doesn’t want to acknowledge the universe’s idea of a shit joke._

Jason doesn’t blame him. Soulmates are a crock of shit anyway, and Tim’s better off without being tethered to him, and vice versa. They should keep pretending.

Because Jason doesn’t get to be happy.

And Tim deserves better than him because Tim—as much as he’s a pain in the ass—is _good_.

“And on that note,” Jason murmurs to himself, putting his gauntlet back on, “time to play the villain.”

The tip he received put him in the Ghost Dragons’ crosshairs—which means someone on his payroll is making a move, either against him or against someone else.

Time to find out for sure.

_And no more moping over this soulmate crap._

Johnny Lino is the head of an investment company that’s just a front for his money laundering. He’s been passing the Red Hood information about his clients for the better part of a year now, ever since Jason put the fear of Hood in him. Quite a feat, considering the man’s a few inches taller and broader.

Jason finds him in a condo off the Diamond District, watching the Knights game and stuffing his face with pretzels.

_Ponzi schemes don’t buy manners, I guess. _

“Johnny,” he greets in a clear, would-be friendly manner that has the older man choking up his most recent handful. “Long time no see. Got a bone to pick with you.”

He expects there to be some mumbling and groveling, a few bald-faced lies that require the generous application of foot to face and the reassurance that everything in Jason’s sandbox is back to the way it should be.

So, it surprises him when Johnny scrambles for something that Jason notes too late is a panic button. All of a sudden, half a dozen masked men in combat gear and carrying assault rifles are busting through the door.

“That’s a bit of an overreaction to some conversation, don’t ya think?” Jason asks, throwing himself into action to deal with the interlopers. Bullets fly and knives slice toward him, but in five minutes he’s standing in the ruins of the room with six unconscious men.

And one dead one.

Johnny’s got a neat hole in the side of his head, from one of his hired muscle’s guns, Jason presumes.

“And doesn’t that say a lot about the quality of hired muscle in Gotham these days?” he grumbles, kicking at the body. “Can’t even trust your own people not to shoot you by accident.”

He can hear sirens, knows a neighbor or someone has called in the noise and heads for the fire exit before anyone can link him to the scene. That’s all he needs is the big Bat thinking he pulled the trigger in there.

_And damn it, the giant bastard was one of my best sources. Now I’ve got to find someone else._

The encounter bothers him.

He’s had people on his payroll get shifty before, but it’s been his experience that there’s more of a prelude before the attempt to stab him in the back. They try to run or talk their way out of it; it seems Johnny went all out, trying to take out the Red Hood, all because of a bit of questionable information.

If he was so desperate to hire a kill squad rather than answer some well-deserved questions…

_Maybe it’s not me that spooked him._

He thinks back to the shot that killed Johnny, remembers the angle it hit the head, and where the exit wound was. The opposite direction from where the thugs entered—from the window.

“There was another shooter,” he realizes.

A quick visit to the building opposite confirms his suspicion: the scrape where someone set up a tripod, bullet casing rolled to one side.

It wasn’t Johnny afraid to talk to the Red Hood—someone else feared he would.

_Question is, were they worried he’d talk or worried he’d talk to _me_?_

⁂⁂⁂ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr (violetsmoak) for news regarding updates--or just to drop me a line :)


	2. Two

Tim is exhausted.

It’s not the semi-permanent fatigue he’s been living with ever since becoming a vigilante, the ‘constantly tired about something’ background noise of his life. It’s more of an utter _doneness _with everything.

His head is pulsing like someone took an icepick to his left eye and punched through to his brain stem, and he’s got a bit of fever. Damian’s cat bit him in the early hours of dawn when he stopped by the Cave to drop off some intel. It’s taking his antibiotics longer to kick in than he’d like.

He’s been in meetings since seven this morning discussing the next year’s budget, sitting across the boardroom from the old guard of shareholders and Bruce. Bruce, who’s been attending more of these meetings in the past month with the implied goal of scrutinizing every move Tim makes. He spent hours today grilling Tim on every judgment call, made him argue for every cent of allocated funds and second-guessed projects months in the making.

And then the board members—even those who disliked Bruce—joined in and it was like a fucking ambush.

Tim didn’t even have someone in his corner to give him five minutes of breathing room, and he’s never missed Tam so much as at that moment. But she asked to transfer to a different department not long after the whole faking her father’s death thing. Tim doesn’t want to call her in for matters he should be able to handle himself.

Kon’s canceled their plans to hang out this weekend because he forgot his and Cassie’s anniversary. It was meant to be a videogame and junk food fueled marathon, and Tim had been looking forward to it for two weeks now. It’s the third time this month they’ve had to call rain check.

_Though to be fair the last two instances were because I got dragged into something Bat related and time-sensitive._

At this point, all he wants it to get home, eat a whole pizza himself and sleep for at least eight hours. He’s even picking out toppings as he heads for his car in the employee parking lot.

So, of course, that’s when the notification system on his phone chimes. Patched into the GCPD frequencies, he’s informed that Killer Croc is rampaging in the University District.

And at City Hall?

_Crash!_

And apparently now in the WE Building.

“What the _hell_?”

The lingering staff members scream and flee to their offices, barricading themselves in as the growling, pebble-skinned _thing_ bursts out of the nearby stairwell.

_Okay, that’s not Killer Croc, but it looks a heck of a lot like him. Maybe shorter._

The elevator bell dings, opening on an empty car, drawing the snarling man-shaped beast’s attention. It makes an immediate run for Tim, who backs into the elevator and glances upward; there’s a cage across the ceiling to block access to the ceiling panels, the spaced between the metal lats wide enough to reach his fingers through.

He bends and jumps up, swearing at the bite of metal as he grabs hold of the grille, just as the creature barrels into the elevator. Tim uses the momentum to plow his knee into the creature’s jaw.

Its head snaps backward, blood spraying as it bites down on its tongue, but it doesn’t pass out as Tim had hoped. Right as it’s gearing up to take another run at Tim, there’s _thwip_! sound and two darts lodge themselves in its throat from somewhere outside.

The croc-person goes rigid and passes out. A moment later, Bruce strolls down the hallway toward him as casually as if he’s heading to dinner. He folds a compact knockout dark gun back into his breast pocket. Luckily for them, all of the doors remain shut tight and there are no windows for the other employees to see any of this.

“What did you hit him with?” Tim wants to know.

“Carfentanil,” Bruce replies, stepping over the unconscious body and reaching for the thumbprint scanner at the bottom of the elevator panel. “Lucius will see to that one.”

He engages the override to skip every floor on the way down to the sub-basement.

“What’s going on?”

“Based on Batgirl’s intel, some idealistic grad student wanting to change the world. She believed the best way to kick-start the proletarian revolution was to mix Waylon Jones’ DNA with a version of Langstrom’s prototype serums, test it out on the homeless and then release them in various locations considered to be bourgeoisie strongholds of Gotham.”

Tim blinks at that. “Eat the rich?”

“Somehow I doubt that’s what Rousseau meant.”

The elevator vibrates as it speeds downward, and Bruce considers Tim out of the corner of his eye. “How long has it been since you slept?”

_Twenty-three hours._

“I’m fine, B.”

“You were nodding off during the presentation by Powers Tech.”

“Because Warrick Powers is a pedantic drone that’s rehashing all of the same proposals he made last month. Even you were playing Candy Crush on your phone for half of it.”

Bruce’s expression doesn’t change. “Anyone going out tonight has to be at their best. Killer Croc is a challenge on a good day, but Oracle’s saying there have been a dozen sightings of these hybrids—”

“All the more reason you need me out there,” Tim cuts him off. As the door to the elevator opens, he strides away before Bruce can offer reason he doesn’t want Tim going out tonight. He’s been questioned enough today at work, he refuses to be called out on his night job.

Things go from weird to complicated to unbelievable within hours. As it turns out, Killer Croc is involved…but he’s working _with_ them for once. Red Hood’s voice comes over the comms early on to caution everyone not to go after him unless he makes a move on a civilian.

“Arsenal vouches for him,” he insists, and things are so crazy no one has time to argue with him. Everyone separates into their various zones, though corralling the croc-man-bat hybrids often has them overlapping with one another.

It takes all night.

By the time the last of the test-subjects has been subdued, ready for transport to a treatment facility, dawn is just peeking over the edges of the buildings. Tim’s body aches like one big bruise. He’s got something bigger than a cat bite that needs treatment, and if his head hurt before, now it’s like his brain is bubbling out of his skull.

Everyone has checked in, which is a relief, but everyone sounds like they’ve been put through the wringer. Those that Tim can see look even worse.

Batman is on the ground, conversing with Commissioner Gordon, and from the way he’s standing, it’s clear he’s taken some damage to his ribs. On a rooftop in the distance, Tim can see Robin with his arms crossed, cape in ruins and shoulders hunched inward. He doesn’t have to see the kid’s face to know he’s scowling. Beside him, Red Hood is laughing, helmet missing and body armor ratty and torn. Tim taps his visor to magnify his vision. Hood’s entire left arm-sleeve is gone, along with the gauntlet, and he’s bleeding from a wound above his bicep.

But he doesn’t seem bothered by it. He even reaches out to ruffle Robin’s hair, then easily dodges the knife the kid swipes at him. There’s a flicker of relief that flits through Tim to see him unharmed.

Despite their past, despite the fact Jason avoids him, Tim still tries to stay hopeful about the whole thing. It’s possible things will get better and they can be friends one day, or at least tolerate each other in the way Jason and Damian do. He could handle that.

“Well that was fun,” Steph groans, dropping down beside Tim on his chosen rooftop. “I need to sleep for the next six weeks, though.”

“What are you, a groundhog?” Duke quips, alighting on the other side of him.

“If it gets me out of midterms, hell yes. Just…not the same day over and over thing.”

“I don’t understand,” Cass sighs. “Either of you.”

The usual post-Arkham-level emergency banter starts up, all snarky jokes and witty rejoinders and Tim’s just…not in the mood.

“I’ve got a final sweep to do before turning in,” he mutters. He doesn’t care if anyone hears him as he hops over the edge of the building and grapples away. There’s some chatter and questions in his ear, but he ignores it.

His adrenaline from the night’s activities is dropping, and the exhaustion he was experiencing earlier in the day is hitting him like a Mac truck. He doesn’t even want the pizza anymore, just the sleep.

There’s a dreamlike quality to the way he sways through the air like he’s not actually present in the moment. Perhaps he’ll skip the last leg of patrol too, tonight. And he can write the incident report up tomorrow, and—

Right as he hits the highest arc of his swing, there’s a _snap_ and sudden give to his line.

It should be an automatic thing, hauling out his redundant grapple gun and fixing it to a new anchor point. This is all about timing, a practiced movement all of them trained for before Bruce even let them out of the cave.

And yet.

It’s as if time slows for just a moment.

As if he has all the time in the world to contemplate the intricacies of each separate action, the pull of his muscles and movements of his fingers. Or even the ramifications of simply letting himself fall.

For that one moment, Tim isn’t Red Robin or Tim Drake-Wayne or any number of things he’s supposed to be, he’s just. There. Existing in a void of sound and sensation, adrenaline blocking it all out, weightless and empty.

Floating.

A sudden desperate wish hits him to freeze everything like this, at this high-point forever. To stay forever frozen in the peace of a not-quite-flight.

Gravity pulls at him then, making his stomach flip, and he reaches for the redundant grapple, even as he realizes he’s too slow. The air rushes past him, the ground rises to meet him and he’s still drawing out the line, and it will be too late—

As he’s about to hit to point of no return, something clasps around his arm and _yanks_. Someone wrenches Tim up and forward, a hand grasping his whole forearm in a vicelike grip and it’s reflex for his fingers to clasp around it. Warmth tingles in his fingers and radiates the entirety of his arm, like laying his hand on his own personal sun. As they swing through the air, Tim’s eyes fall upon the literal lifeline that saved him.

The first thing he sees is a swirl of red and gold, the familiar winding knotwork pattern of his soulmark.

Except it’s not his.

Jason’s left arm and shoulder are bare, the mark blossoming seemingly out of nowhere halfway up his forearm. But Tim recognizes the uneven streak of hastily applied cover-up from wrist to elbow-crease—because it turns out, Jason covers his mark at all times as Bruce does.

The warmth in Tim’s hand and arm grow, stretching tendrils of heat through his body, but it burns the most where he and Jason touch. Steph once described the sensation as a lock and key interlinking, and he finally understands because there is a very physical _click_ inside him, like tumblers slamming into place.

It’s distantly familiar, and he wonders if he might have experienced this before, but couldn’t focus on it due to being bleeding out at the time. The way their marks reach and wind about each other now, Tim doesn’t believe there’s any way for it to be ignored anymore.

His heart flutters at the idea.

Then Jason is swinging them to the nearest rooftop and abruptly lets Tim go, snatching his hand back the instant his boots hit the gravel. Tim stumbles forward, barely stopping himself from tumbling to his knees from the momentum.

He skids around to face Jason, who is already turning away, shielding the mark. When he faces Tim again, the colors recede once more beneath the spray cover-up.

“Geeze, Replacement. You gettin’ enough sleep?” he asks lightly, mouth crooked. “You almost let yourself become pavement art.”

Tim blinks, still a little lost in his head.

“I mean, I’m sure you could have engaged those tacky wings of yours before the worst happened, but cuttin’ it kind of close, don’t ya think?”

Tim’s not really thinking anything. His eyes are on Jason’s arm, where the colors of his mark have already slipped away. Because Jason is putting a very conspicuous space between them. And asking something inane, as if he’s trying to distract him.

Which he shouldn’t be doing.

He _saw_ the mark. He would have felt what Tim felt. It should be a shock, he should be confused or angry or surprised—

Tim freezes in realization.

“You’re not surprised,” he says, the words somehow disconnected from his mouth.

“Surprised about what?”

Tim bristles at Jason’s feigned ignorance now, indignation rekindling some of his spark. “_Seriously? _You’re just going to—you’re really going to pretend we both didn’t see that? That we both don’t _know_…?”

“I think that fight rattled you,” Jason says, slow and placating. “How many times did you get hit in the head tonight?”

“You didn’t even _flinch_!” Tim snaps, taking a step forward. “If you hadn’t known, it would have surprised you! You might have dropped me, or yelled, or…”

Jason is backing away now, not even trying to disguise his intention and Tim darts forward, hand snatching to grab hold of Jason’s wrist. Incredible gold and deep scarlet bands of color creep up his left arm, threading along the capillaries of his skin, connecting the freckles and scars across his bare arm. There’s a corresponding warmth in Tim’s right wrist and arm.

Before either design can fully manifest, though, Jason snatches his hand back and punches Tim in the chest.

“I’m not a fan of handsy guys,” he says, though his joke is lost in the ice of his tone.

Tim barely reacts to the blow, because he’s had worse from Jason, and right now, he’s honestly too furious to register it.

“You knew the _whole_ time, didn’t you?” he accuses.

“Knew what—?”

“_Don’t! _Don’t_ lie! _You’ve known—you _had_ to have known ever since the day we met, at the Tower!” There is no argument this time, only a head-on gaze. “And you never said anything.”

“Well, it’s not like you did either,” Jason defends, discomfort coloring each word.

And _there’s_ the confirmation; it’s more of a blow to the gut than Jason’s punch. It’s an aching, gnawing _hurt_, and Tim tries to tamp it down, tries to focus more on the simmering rage that is welling up alongside it.

“Because I didn’t think yours had _activated_,” he manages to get out. “At the time I didn’t think you were capable of…I thought if I said anything, you’d…you hated me then, and—” Comprehension smacks into him. “That’s why you didn’t bring it up, isn’t it? And then the other night, when I said all that. About soulmates. You knew what I thought about it, and that’s why you didn’t say anything.”

Jason coughs, backing away again. “Okay, glad we cleared that up.”

“If you’d said something—if you’d even acknowledged it, maybe—”

“‘Maybe’ what?” Jason challenges. “We’d magically be on track for a house and picket fence and adopting our own passel of neglected orphans?”

“Wait!”

“Yeah, no, I’m over this—”

“Jason, don’t—” He reaches out once more, hand clamping down on his shoulder and in his madness, he’s forgotten everything he knows about Jason and personal space. It all comes back in a rush when he’s suddenly staring down the barrel of a gun.

“I said I’m done,” Jason growls, and Tim swallows reflexively.

Slowly, carefully, he takes a step back.

Jason doesn’t move right away, simply stares at him, then the gun in his hand, which he lowers after a breath.

The tension doesn’t leave his shoulders though.

“This whole soulmate thing is some bullshit,” Jason snarls at last. “I hope you’ve got another option on the other arm, Drake, because I ain’t it. And I want shit-all to do with you. Follow me, and I’ll shoot you.”

He leaps from the building, and a beat later Tim watches him swing away between the skyscrapers.

It takes a while to remember how to breathe, more because of the crushed glass sensation in his throat than of any fear Jason would have shot him.

The rejection isn’t unexpected.

Honestly, it’s like a door being closed on something he hoped for even when he tried not to. There’s a finality to it that should be cathartic even.

It doesn’t hurt any less.

_Well. At least now I know for sure._

Really, it’s a relief. He knew Jason didn’t like him, but he kept fooling himself with hope and occasional daydreams. And now he can’t anymore, and that’s that. It isn’t like losing Robin or no one believing him about Bruce or butting heads with Ra’s; those had workarounds. This, though, soulmates…it’s not something that can be learned or memorized or forced into being.

Time to move on.

Because Tim doesn’t get to be happy.

Body on autopilot, he returns to the Nest and sees to any obvious wounds. He concentrates on careful stitching, and then on meticulously writing up his report on the night’s events. No need to mention his argument with Jason. Tonight’s going to take his strongest sleeping pills and painkiller, he decides, the kind that will keep him from dreaming.

He considers not setting an alarm for the next morning—surely he deserves a day off, doesn’t he? Considering everything that’s happened today?

No. That would make it too easy to dwell on this, to _mope_. Work will keep him busy.

And he _has_ to stay busy.

He’s meticulous about following his routine for the next few days. Immersing himself in new product designs, revising by-laws, defending more of his decisions from Bruce’s nitpicking, volunteering down at the Neon Knights shelters. He visits the remaining Titans, spends time with old school friends in Gotham and goes through the motions with his family. Outwardly it’s working but it all seems…hollow. It doesn’t sit right. Something is missing and he knows exactly what it is but can’t do anything about it.

With every fake smile and encounter with the paparazzi, always being the reliable one and having to think and plan everything through to the tiniest detail. It’s exhausting as ever.

And by night, he throws himself into every fight that comes his way.

He very deliberately avoids looking for Jason.

And it’s fine.

Really.

But at the oddest moments of the day, either at work or diving into the middle of a brawl, he remembers that crystalline moment, just after his line missed. When he was just…floating.

Tim knows that’s not a good sign, knows that he isn’t in the best headspace right now. He thinks of reaching out to Dick, the way he always does when it gets bad. He wants to tell him everything that’s going on with his day and night work, wants to admit the truth about his soulmate—

Then he remembers Dick is on his honeymoon and he doesn’t want to bother him and Barbara over this. So he heads to the manor because Alfred is always a willing ear and wise counsel. And Bruce might be making his life misery at work, but he can always be counted on to have some cases that could benefit from a second pair of eyes.

Except when he gets there, Damian informs him that Alfred is driving Bruce to some political fundraiser.

“It seems you made a wasted trip, Drake. Perhaps next time call ahead and spare yourself the trouble,” he drawls from his seat at Bruce’s desk where he’s sketching, Titus curled at his feet. The dog lifts his head and wags his tail when he sees Tim, but otherwise doesn’t move. “I’d show you to the door, but that would require me to care.”

“Always a pleasure, demon boy,” Tim sighs and sets off down the hall. He decides to take a nap in his old room; at least here the place isn’t as empty as his apartment. Damian might not be the best company, but he’s another human being within his vicinity.

_Sort of_.

As it turns out, Cass is still home. He can hear her laughing at something in the family room, followed by Steph’s familiar guffaws. As he passes by, he sees that they’re curled up together on the couch, arguing over the Netflix selection.

Steph catches sight of him and calls out. “Hey! When did you get here, Former Boy Wonder?”

“Uh, ten minutes ago,” he replies, leaning against the doorframe. It hits him immediately that he’s just interrupted a date night, so he doesn’t make a move to enter.

However, Cass’s all-seeing eyes rove over him and she purses her lips.

“Come and sit,” she tells him. “We have Krispy Kreme.”

“And Cass bought ketchup chips at her layover in Montreal.”

Normally the lure of donuts and chips would have him vault across the room and settle on the couch, but tonight the idea of food makes his stomach rebel.

“I might just go get some coffee,” he replies, trying to back away.

“Do that later,” Cass orders. “Stay for a bit.”

“I don’t want to interrupt anything…”

“You’re not interrupting anything,” Steph rolls her eyes. “Except our weekly argument about what we should watch. Besides, we haven’t seen you since the croc-mutants thing.”

“How’s your head?” Tim asks, giving a mental sigh of defeat and shuffling into the room. Steph sustained a pretty bad concussion that day.

“Still having dizzy spells and can’t move too fast,” she replies. “The ushe.”

Tim doesn’t take a seat on the couch, though, instead sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table and dutifully taking a handful of chips. They don’t taste like anything.

Cass is frowning at him. “You okay?”

“Just tired,” Tim says, forcing what he hopes is a comforting smile. It’s not a lie, not really, but he doesn’t intend to tell her exactly what’s making him tired.

Cass accepts it, though she continues to eye him with concern. He does his best to distract her by suggesting a film he knows both of them hate, forcing another round of arguments about viewing choices.

They really don’t seem to mind him being there, and for a little while, everything’s alright. They throw popcorn at each other and complain about Bruce’s uptightness and gossip about their respective villain drama and mock each other for failing at their New Years Resolutions after only three weeks. 

Eventually the girls become engrossed in the movie. Of _course_, it’s one of the token soulmate plotlines that he immediately skips over on the rare nights he has time to watch television. And Tim becomes more and more conscious of how Steph and Cass lean into one another. Cass’s fingers run through Steph’s hair and Steph hides her face in Cass’s neck when a truly cringe-worthy sappy scene comes up.

They look so…content.

Happy.

At peace.

_I’m never going to have that_, Tim realizes and it’s this that makes his stomach twist, want to throw up and scream and cry.

Because he’s always been alone, but there’s always been that lingering hope that one day he wouldn’t be. That even if it wasn’t a romantic soulmate relationship, he’d still have _someone_.

Everyone he has loved has left him behind; even the one person in the world who was never supposed to.

“What would you have done?” he finds himself asking, staring at the screen where the male and female lead are mired in their stereotypical big-misunderstanding-fueled fight. They hurl words at each other that they obviously don’t mean but were clearly written to be devastating.

Cass and Steph look up, both somewhat startled by his question.

“What would we have done for what?” Steph wonders.

“If Cass had hated you. Or if Steph had hated you.”

Both their faces go blank. Cass’s mouth turns downward as if she is puzzling out a difficult question, while Steph shudders. “I can’t even imagine it.”

“Me neither,” Cass adds.

Tim hums, having expected that answer even if it doesn’t help him.

“Hey—what are you so worried about?” Steph asks, nudging his shoulder with her foot. “It’s a big world. It’s not your fault or the end of the world that your soulmate died.”

Tim’s hand strays to his wrist. He’s covered it up around anyone in the Family since he woke up and learned that Jason Todd had almost killed him. As far as Steph or anyone in the family is concerned, he no longer has a mark.

“You can still have fulfilling relationships,” Steph goes on. “You know, if you get over your secretive and control-freak ways and your tendency to eat Hawaiian pizza.”

Tim snorts. “Says the girl who would eat waffles every meal of the day.”

“Hey, that’s a valid meal choice—do you realize how many different types of savory waffles are out there?”

“No wonder you’re beginning to spill out of your uniform,” Damian’s voice disdains from the doorway. Titus lopes at the boy’s heels. “You and Cain have been colonizing the couch for three hours now. I intend to play _Inquisition_ without your hovering, so leave.”

“You mean you intend to spend three hours on character creation before getting stuck in the Hinterlands for the next week and finally throwing the controller at the screen in frustration and not touching the game again for another month?” Tim asks.

“If I want your input, Drake, I’ll—” Damian considers. “I’ll never want your input. Now shut up and stay out of it. Brown, I demand you all vacate the room immediately or I will force you to.”

“Rude.”

“Eleven televisions on this floor,” Cass adds. “One in your room, even.”

“This one has the best resolution for gaming. _You_ go to one of the other ones. You’re not doing anything important in here.”

“There’s nothing more important than Netflix and chill with the boo,” Steph replies. She’s playing with her phone and then chuckles, angling it so Cass can see, earning a bright laugh in return.

Damian looks disgusted. “I sincerely hope when I meet my soulmate, I am not so ridiculous about it as you two, or Grayson.”

“We are not ridiculous,” Cass replies. “We are normal.”

There’s immeasurable pleasure in that word; Tim knows it’s not often she gets to use it in relation to herself. Once again he thinks himself a complete tool for being jealous of her and Steph.

“Hopefully I will take after Father,” Damian continues, sitting in the armchair across from them.

“Emotionally stunted and anal-retentive?” Steph suggests, earning snorts of laughter from everyone but the blood scion of Wayne.

“In terms of soulmates,” Damian emphasizes; Tim notices he didn’t bother correcting Steph’s assessment of Bruce. “I will not make a total fool over the person I have been assigned.”

“First of all, soulmates aren’t _assigned_,” Steph says, “and second, B is totally foolish over Selina. Why else does she never get sent to jail? And what do you call Alfred putting up with his bull after all these years?”

“Tt. Perhaps you have a point.” Damian seems to reconsider, before glancing at Tim with a frown. “I suppose in this, you’ve had some luck, Drake.”

That brings him up short, both the implied compliment and the sentiment behind it. “…How?”

“Your soulmate is dead.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence in the room.

“Damian!” Steph cries, sitting up and dislodging Cass’s fingers to stare at him in horror. “You can’t _say_ stuff like that!”

“Why not? It’s true.”

Now would be the time to correct everyone. Tim doesn’t bother.

“That’s not—I meant you shouldn’t wish your soulmate was dead, especially since you haven’t even met them yet.”

“I hope I never do,” Damian insists. “Look at Drake—his soulmate cannot be exploited as a weakness by some clever criminal. He will never have to lie about his identity if the individual turns out to have questionable morals—consider how long Father was forced to hide his identity from Catwoman. And Drake is now free to pursue or avoid any relationship he wishes, without having to worry it will be interrupted by the untimely arrival of a soulmate.” His expression smooths a little, becoming more thoughtful than petulant. “He is free in a way none of us are.”

Cass tilts her head to one side. “That is oddly…insightful of you.”

“And really kind of depressing,” Steph groans.

“And my cue to leave,” Tim says, standing. He forces an easy tone. “If Damian starts envying _me_, the Apocalypse must be about to start. I should get an early start to patrol just in case.”

“No, Tim! Stay—see what you did, Damian? Apologize.”

“That’s not happening.”

“It’s fine,” Tim dismisses, already leaving the room. “I’ll see you guys later.”

“Be careful,” Cass cautions, her tone somehow knowing.

Tim flees before she decides to really focus on him, but not before Steph can hurry out after him.

“Hey, ignore what he said,” his ex-girlfriend says, looking both worried and intent at the same time. “He’s never had a soulmate, so he doesn’t understand how serious it is to say something like that.”

“No…it’s actually fine,” Tim assures her.

In fact, far from being insulted by Damian’s words, Tim finds himself latching on to them and the logic they represent. The last thing he wants to be is that cautionary tale, like the kid people pity who shuts down his whole life because their crush didn’t like them back.

“Are you sure?” Steph asks. “Because Cass is right, you don’t look okay tonight.”

“I really am just tired,” he insists once again. “I think I’ll skip patrol tonight. Get some sleep.”

She lets out a relieved puff of breath. “Well, that’s something at least.”

“Enjoy your movie—or your impending war with Damian over rights to the family room. Whatever.”

“Oh, he’s in for it if he tries,” Steph smiles a truly fiendish smile, similar to the one she turns on criminals before she breaks their jaw. “Night, Tim.”

“Night.”

He continues on his way to his room, while Steph turns back to the family room. She pauses though, and says, “I was thinking…if she did? Hate me, I mean?”

Tim turns his head to acknowledge her.

“I’d probably still stick around nearby,” Steph says; she rubs at her shoulder, clearly discomfited by the idea. “Just to make sure she was happy, I guess? It’d give me peace of mind, even if I couldn’t be with her. You know?”

Tim’s carefully maintained façade of functionality wavers a little. His eyes soften a bit and he offers Steph a small smile. “I do. Good thing you’ll never have to worry about that, right?”

“Yeah…”

They exchange bittersweet smiles for a moment. Tim bets she’s remembering the day it became clear she and Tim wouldn’t ever be anything more than friends. Then Steph disappears into the family room.

Tim strolls down the corridor to his quarters, frowning with a new resolve. He doesn’t have it in him to stick around and make sure Jason is alright and happy; he can’t even think about the situation without the growing lump in his throat slicing into him.

So, it’s best to focus on filling his life with other pursuits.

From that point on, he renews his goal to immerse himself in work.

WE by day and Red Robin by night. He loads up case after case, reasoning his way through elaborate mental games with villains and rogues, and sends in work for his correspondence courses at Ivy University.

He exists on coffee and sleeping pills and four hours of sleep a night, but he’s too exhausted to fixate, and _that’s_ the important part.

⁂⁂⁂

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr (violetsmoak) for news regarding updates--or just to drop me a line :)


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Author's Note(s):** Low and behold, plot, and not just Tim whump. (Although there's definitely a big hit of that, too)

Jason maintains that he doesn’t run. He just makes a well-timed exit.

Out of Gotham.

He meets up with Roy and Kori who are in Key West of all places and convinces them to do something on the other side of the planet. Somewhere dusty and without reliable communication technology, where he hopes they’ll end up being abducted by aliens again.

It has nothing to do with wanting to ignore the whole soulmate thing, or the nagging flickers of guilt he experiences for having been an epic douchebag to Tim, who he now knows gives a shit about being soulmates.

Which isn’t _Jason’s _fault.

It’s not on either of them that Tim got stuck with Jason or that Jason had to make clear where he stood on the issue. There’s nothing worse than giving someone like Tim false hope.

“Not even breaking his heart?” Kori asks, cross-legged on the couch in her trailer, hair flickering above her like a crackling fire. She ended up getting the story out of him within a day because she’s _Kori_ and lying to her feels like slapping a kitten or something.

“First, I didn’t break his heart. Second, if I did, he’ll get over it,” Jason insists. “And it’s better it happens now than let him mope about it for the rest of his life. At least this way he can put an effort into findin’ someone who actually cares.” Kori tilts her head to one side and presses her lips together. “I mean, it’s not like I want the kid dead anymore, but I’m not lookin’ to make friends or family or whatever with him. And at the end of the day, he’s a decent person and I’m not, so there’s that, too.”

Jason ruins everything he touches—case point, the soulmate he’s already tried (and temporarily succeeded) to kill.

“It sounds as if you already care more about the mate of your soul than you wish to admit,” Kori remarks.

“He’s _not_ my mate.”

“No, not with that attitude.”

“You think I have an _attitude_? Because I don’t want anything controllin’ my actions or my destiny? The idea isn’t supposed to bother me?”

“I did not say that. But you are looking at the whole thing from just the one angle.”

“You’re tellin’ me it doesn’t bother _you_?”

“It does not. But I am not you, and matters of the soul are a subjective issue,” she says and leans forward. “You always have a choice, Jason. There are many who have been linked by fate yet choose not to be together. You have seen me and Richard.” Jason’s eyes flick to the creeping pattern of blues and greens that wrap around Kori’s wrist. “Xhal may have decreed we be together, but we decided it was best not to. We have different values, different understandings of the world and relationship—and we both have deep commitments outside of ourselves. That is why I believe the universe ensured he also has Barbara.” She smiles, gentle but sad. “We choose to be mates of the soul from a distance. And I am content with this. It gives me…freedom, in a way. But that decision was made after a long bit of thought and much discussion. Not because we disliked the notion of fate.”

“That doesn’t mean I need to do the same,” Jason points out, a little stiffly.

“No. It does not. But whatever you feel, you and Timothy have a bond. And you are knowingly cutting it off without giving it a chance, something which no doubt does him harm.”

“Not as much as it would if I were around him.”

“You do not know that.”

“Uh, _yeah_, I do.”

“Very well.” Kori’s brow furrows. “I will not argue with someone that has set their mind to something. I have given you my views on the matter, or rather concerning your mate and your own self-worth. Do with them what you will.”

And she strides out of the trailer; Jason sees a burst of flame outside suggesting she’s flown off.

“And what’s your take on this?” he grumbles, glancing at where Roy’s been sitting the whole time, fiddling with what might have been a DVD player once but now more closely resembles a miniature drone.

“Not my circus, not my monkeys,” Roy grunts around a screwdriver in his mouth.

Jason rolls his eyes.

“Although,” his best friend continues, putting down his tools, “don’t you think by avoiding Gotham, you’re pretty much letting the whole soulmate thing decide how you’re living your life? How’s that different from fate or destiny or the Giant Spaghetti Monster?”

Which Jason can’t summon an argument against.

He hates it when Roy makes sense.

It’s another day of procrastinating before he throws up his hands and says, “You both suck and I’m never comin’ to you for anything ever again.”

“Just call ahead next time,” Kori hums. “Stella is teaching me to make _carne asada_ and I will require another test subject.”

“We’ve only needed to get the fire extinguisher twice,” Roy adds, and Kori nods proudly.

“You two disgust me with your domestic bliss,” Jason informs them before he leaves, although seeing them has made him feel somewhat better.

His friends are an excellent example of a successful relationship despite not being soulmates. Kori’s embodiment of joy was the perfect balm to Roy’s garbage pile of a life. Rejected by his soulmate, his addiction, losing Lian…

Actually, now that he thinks about it, Roy’s life only really started on its downward spiral _after_ Jade ghosted him.

There’s something worrying about that knowledge, but Jason doesn’t examine it too closely.

He heads back to Gotham, a little chastised and a little wary, but determined to keep giving fate or Xhal or whoever the finger. If anyone asks (and no one does), he’s not back to the city because of Tim, but because he still hasn’t figured out who put the contract out on Johnny Lino.

It’s nagging at him more than the death of one of his informants usually does. The trail went cold almost immediately, nothing beyond the traces of a sniper in the opposite building. He’s calling it a coincidence for now, although he’s mentally earmarked it for potential problems in the future if anything else like this happens.

_Maybe Johnny just got too big for his britches and pissed off the wrong mobster. One with access to the quality hitmen _he_ couldn’t afford._

Two nights later, when he stops into a club that’s the front to a high stakes illegal poker game, he decides it’s no longer a potential problem, but an imminent right-the-fuck-now problem.

He’s there to collect his percentage from a few of the guys around the table, but once the door closes behind him, he’s suddenly getting ambushed by a table for people with knives and no qualms about dying.

Jason has never liked killing people; it’s something that occasionally has to be done, in the same way a cop sometimes has to pull his service weapon. Certain people in particular—serial rapists and pedophiles and the Joker—are part of that ‘it needs to be done’ category. Thugs like this are just small-time losers with bad judgment, so he’s not really aiming to kill any of them.

Immobilizing shots and the like.

Which is why he’s a bit concerned when he goes to interrogate the bastards about what’s going on, and the guy he reaches for suddenly starts foaming at the mouth, eyes rolling back in his head.

“What the fuck?” Jason jerks backward, glancing at all the rest and finding that they, too, are now convulsing and twitching as the life leaves their bodies.

_Cyanide, _he realizes when he leans close to his guy’s mouth and detects the smell of almonds. _Again, I say, ‘what the fuck’?_

It’s the second time a visit to an underling has resulted in death.

Something’s going on in his house, and he doesn’t like it. Maybe the trip to Florida wasn’t a good idea just now; he needs information, and he needs it now.

Except, when he canvasses the streets between Park Row and Byron, he discovers quickly that his people aren’t talking. The girls that are usually so chatty cross quickly to the other side of the streets, the hustlers on the corners are suddenly all on breaks, and the bodega clerks simply beg him to leave their shops, they have kids, you know?

The only one that will talk to him is Rhonda, one of the prostitutes that has been there longer than the rest. She’s a raw-boned woman with leathery skin and bleached, teased blond curls; once, a john tried to act out a rape-murder fantasy on her and she tasered him in the nuts until they burned off.

He’s not sure how much of that’s true, but if anyone could pull that off, it’s Rhonda.

“Someone put a price on your head, baby,” she informs him when he tracks her down, taking a long drag of a menthol cigarette. “Someone scarier than you.”

“Not possible,” he replies, trying to inject some of his usual cockiness into the words.

“There’s always someone scarier,” she informs him gravely. “Lotsa girls and runners gone to the new player. They says he’s gonna protect us better than Red Hood ever did, offer us a bigger take. More of our money in our pockets. Even gonna keep the kids safe better than you could.”

“Which you don’t believe, or you’d be jumping that bandwagon.”

“I believe what I sees, and I ain’t seen this guy,” she replies. “But he did send those Pike bastards outta here, runnin’ with their tails between their legs. Last I heard, they got picked up by one of the Bats before they set much on fire.”

“Which Bat?”

“Red Robin, I think.”

_I guess I owe him for taking care of that particular headache._

“He’s pretty decent for a mask,” she adds. “Always comes down here when you ain’t been seen for a few days. He a bit softer—never leaves anyone crippled—but the alley stays safe when he comes by.”

Jason scowls inside his helmet. He didn’t come here to talk about his replacement.

“What do you know about this new guy, then?” he asks, redirecting the conversation back to his current problem. “The one trying to move in on my turf, not the wannabe Bat.”

“Oh, no, honey, that’s all I’m givin’ you. Anyone hears I told you even that and I’m in trouble. But I hear you ain’t the only one having troubles with him. Penguin’s stepped up his muscle a lot lately.”

“I guess that means I’m going clubbin’,” Jason says, and hands over a few hundreds. It’s more than the information she gave him is worth, but she’s got a kid to feed. “Take a night or two off, Rhonda. Could be a hard few days.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” she replies and pockets the money, slinking into the shadows.

The next stop on his list that night is the Iceberg Lounge. As usual, Penguin doesn’t intend to be helpful in the beginning.

“I assure you I have heard nothing of this newest player,” he croaks after Jason goes through the obligatory routine of threats and a show of violence. “But then, a good portion of my clientele has absconded to the Hungry Ghost these past weeks.”

“The what?”

“A new club—little more than the front for a brothel. But rife with rumors and scandal.” He smiles his oily little smile, the one that Jason’s broken more than once since he was thirteen and has to fight down the urge to do again now.

“It’s not like you to be so calm about this. You’re usually more of a control freak over the information game.”

“The wheel never stops turning, Hood. There’s a reason I’ve been around longer than anyone else in this business. It’s knowing the proper time to stand and fight…and the proper time to move out of the line of fire. I will still be here when the dust settles.” The man grins wide, showing yellowed teeth. “But from what I hear, you might not be.”

“That a threat?” Jason growls, hand moving to his holster.

“An observation. And don’t look like that, do you really think I’d dirty my hands on someone like you?” Penguin sniffs. “I am remaining Switzerland on this issue.”

“Switzerland, huh? So armed neutrality?”

“Indeed.”

His cold eyes following Jason as he takes his leave—and knocks out a few bodyguards that try to make a move on him as he goes.

“What the fuck?” he asks for the third time in as many days, absently rubbing the back of his left wrist. “How does _Penguin_ not even know what’s going on?”

“Since he’s trying to stay alive,” a voice replies, and Jason almost—_almost_—jumps when he notices the shadow leaning over a nearby fire-escape. Red Robin materializes fully into the light but remains a conspicuous distance away from Jason. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”

Tim’s tone is careful.

“I didn’t exactly put it on MySpace.”

“MySpace hasn’t been around since 2009.”

“Yeah, well, I was dead that year, so sue me for not knowin’ that.”

He expects a reprimand or a bit of tooth-grinding like he always gets when he makes oblique jokes about his death. But Tim just shrugs. Which seems…_off_, somehow.

“A week ago, all the major players were sent packages,” Tim informs him, going back to the subject at hand. “Heads, hands, and hearts of their top lieutenants, and a warning to wait for orders from the new boss in Gotham.”

“So basically, someone took my schtick and went the extra mile,” Jason suggests.

_And is trying to edge me out of my own business._

“B is monitoring the situation. It hasn’t spilled into the civilian sphere yet, so he hasn’t deemed it an immediate threat.”

“Of fuckin’ course not, it’s not _his_ head the new guy wants on a pike!” Jason growls, somewhat irritated by this, but also a bit surprised. Bruce wouldn’t be leaving the matter alone if he thought Jason was in any actual danger; maybe, for once, he understands Jason can handle it.

_Doesn’t explain why the kid’s here tonight, though._

“So what are _you_ doing here?”

There’s a slight squeak of leather as Tim shrugs. “Protection detail. We’ve all been assigned to keep an eye out if whoever this is makes a move on one of the bigger names. I’m on Penguin tonight.”

“Capes guardin’ criminals,” Jason snorts. “The irony of that never gets old.

Tim doesn’t answer. No witty rejoinder, no impassioned defense of Batman’s credo.

“Still, at least you’re doing something,” Jason allows, somewhat grudging. “And you’ve been busy with the Pikes, from what I hear. I was savin’ them for a rainy day, but I guess it’s a headache I don’t have to worry about now.”

He expects Tim to display some kind of reaction to that, even if it is dark sarcasm.

“It’s my job,” he says instead, in a way that makes Jason frown. But not as much as he does when Tim shoots a grapple line and takes off without another word.

_Well, that was weird. But…okay? I guess?_

Tim didn’t mention anything about their soulmarks; didn’t even bother bringing it up. Clearly, he took Jason’s message to heart and is trying to be professional. Which is also good. Not a lot of people can handle rejection with any sense of maturity.

_A little cold, but it’s Tim. He’s not as emotive as Dick is, anyway._

Jason puts it out of his mind, ignores that tiny flash of _wrong _that crops of when he thinks about the younger man’s behavior. Which doesn’t happen all that often, since he’s too busy running down his list of contacts trying to find out who exactly the new player is in Gotham.

In theory, he could go to the other Bats for information—could go to _Oracle_, if he butters her up a bit. She still has a thing for cinnamon buns from that place on 4th, it wouldn’t even be out of his way…

But he’s not really keen on talking to any of them right now, and not to put too fine a point on it, this is _his_ business. It’s bad enough they’re even on the periphery of the case already.

⁂

Two days later, tracking a snitch that’s been avoiding him causes him to stumble upon a weapons deal going down in Tricorner. No local colors, but from the gear Jason calls mercenaries.

Red Robin’s in the middle of it, outnumbered by a lot and outgunned by more, and Jason throws himself into the fight without thinking too much about it. It’s what anyone in the Family does, after all, no need to ascribe any meaning to it.

Red grunts an acknowledgment—that he sees Jason and won’t accidentally break his jaw with his bō—and they settle into their usual fight pattern. Jason’s always found this all too easy—there’s something about fighting back to back with another Bat that’s just instinctive, whether it’s Dick or Damian or even Bruce.

But with Tim, it’s always been more than that. They work together like gears in a clock.

He always shied away from attributing that to their soul bond, because that would mean having to acknowledge it. Better to think it was because Tim obsessively stalked Jason when he was Robin and that Jason learned everything he could about his replacement’s style when he and Talia were planning his big return to Gotham.

But it’s out there now, isn’t it? They both know, it’s not a secret.

Just like Jason knows after several minutes that there’s something still _off_ about Red.

Half his attention on his own fight with his own portion of the goons, Jason can still observe the other vigilante’s movements. Red is telegraphing his moves more. Nothing these brainless thugs would notice, but someone with Bat and League training could spot from a mile away. There’s a languidness in his movements like he’s not entirely present in the moment, and a lack of care in his attacks.

Jason watches as Tim takes a running jump, kneeing one thug in the chest and knocking him to the floor, then using him as a steppingstone—steps down harder than usual, dislocates the shoulder—twists and grabs the next nearest thug by the arm. Holding him, he hobbles him in the knee, then follows up with a kick to the head.

As the bullets fly, Tim tucks and rolls between two more assailants, sweeping the feet out from beneath the third, who stumbles, allowing Tim to weave beneath his outstretched arm and the gun he has pointed at him. Bowing his back into him, Tim tries to go for an elbow to the solar plexus, but the guy is shooting now even as he struggles with Tim.

Usually, he’d be attempting to ensure those shots remain nonlethal, but this time he doesn’t seem concerned with it. It’s by sheer chance that several of the slugs only hit the fourth guy in the shoulders, at points that Jason dimly recognizes as close to fatal.

Tim’s assailant is still shooting, they’re still struggling, and even as Tim twists and tries to get it out of his hands, bullets nearly hit Jason as he’s in the process of clotheslining his own opponent.

“The hell, Replacement?” he snaps as he ducks the wild spray of gunfire.

Tim ignores him but has apparently lost patience. He digs a birdarang out of his bandolier, slamming it into the meaty part of his opponent’s leg. There’s a shriek of pain and the guy crumples around the wound, then Tim whirls around and brings him down hard on the floor. As the fifth man comes at him, Tim breaks his nose and shoves him toward the sixth man, who he kicks in the chest, then backhands the last guy, using him as leverage to snap a kick at his buddy.

The guy goes flying backward, and Tim throws the final thug down on the floor, smacking him face-first against the hard pavement with enough force that blood pools around his head.

It’s quick, efficient, and merciless, and if it were anyone else the sheer beauty of the takedown would impress Jason.

Except, this is not the way Red Robin fights. Tim is always efficient, yes, but there’s a certain amount of force he always holds back. No matter how quick and brutal the fight, he takes the extra effort to avoid critical injuries.

That wasn’t there tonight; hell, he almost got Jason shot.

“What’s with you?” Jason demands when they are surrounded by feebly twitching bodies and Tim is calling in the GCPD to deal with the remaining contraband.

“Nothing you need to care about,” is the mild reply.

“I fuckin’ care if it gets me killed!”

“Then maybe you’re not as good as you think you are.”

_Wrong, wrong, wrong._

The tone isn’t the dry, snarky confidence Red Robin usually uses to deliver a line like that. It’s robotic and toneless and _weary_. Jason only remembers him sounding like that after Batman’s supposed death, when no one believed him about Bruce still being alive.

_Wait. Did something happen while I was away?_

“Christ, kid, who died while I was gone?” he demands.

“If we’re done here, I have a report to write,” Tim replies without answering the question, and is already walking away.

“Yeah, fine! You do that!” Jason shouts after him. It’s not like he actually cares for the answer.

And yet…

The whole thing bothers him.

_Kid’s going to get himself killed, and it’s not even something I can blame Bruce for._

Mostly because he’s almost certain he has something to do with Tim’s mood. He might have overestimated Tim’s ability to handle rejection by his soulmate.

Which is disappointing, because of all the teenaged clichés he expected the younger man to fall prey to, giving up on himself the first time he faces rejection?

_Typical rich boy. Got everything handed to him, so when someone tells him ‘no’, he has an existential crisis. Well, whatever. Screw him. It’s none of my business._

Though that assertion is easier said than stood by.

⁂

The next morning, Jason is still feeling uneasy about the whole thing. He didn’t sleep well, just tossed and turned for four hours before he gave up and went a few rounds with his punching bag. He decides to calm himself down another way and heads for the café he sometimes frequents that does tea _almost_ as well as Alfred’s.

The place looks like a bar, but instead of alcoholic beverages, there are exotic teas and fancy cold drinks on display. It’s early enough in the day there aren’t more than two or three other patrons. Usually he comes in later when it’s packed and bustling and easy to disappear into the crowd; today, he appreciates the silence.

In the back corner, a television is on, broadcasting the morning news. The screen switches to a conference and, _of course_, it’s Tim fucking Drake front and center. Talking up something to do with his Neon Knights thing.

_And it looks like Vicki’s up to her shit again._

The intrepid thorn in the collective side of the Family is needling Tim about his personal life. He’s deflects everything with his usual smile until Vale brings up Tam Fox.

Tim’s face is always so composed when speaking to the press, his smile rivaling Brucie or maybe the Mona Lisa for secretiveness. But as Vale’s questions veer toward the subject of soulmates—and Tim’s apparent lack thereof—it’s as if a thundercloud has taken residence on the teen’s face.

When Vale ignores Tim’s third polite side-step of her questioning, he jerks as if a physical snap takes place inside him.

“The last time I checked, this conference is about increasing funding for underprivileged students, not about my personal life,” he says, tone frigid. “And in case your many years of reporting haven’t drilled it into your head, no comment means no comment. If that continues to confuse you, maybe I should replace it with ‘fuck off’.”

The TV censors bleep it out, but you don’t have to be a lipreader to know it’s what he said. As the press clamor, Tim then stalks out of frame, which—

Shit.

Jason is both impressed—because even he never managed to do that when he had to deal with the press as a kid—and disquieted. Because Tim Drake doesn’t lose control like that, not least of all where the public might see it.

_What the hell._

Jason heads back to his current safe house, wondering if maybe this might be something he should tell someone about. He doesn’t have to get touchy-feely about it, but he might drop a hint or two to Dick, or to Alfie, or someone who gives a shit about Tim.

_They can have, I dunno, some kind of intervention or whatever white hats like they do in situations like this._

All thoughts of that vanish, however, when he turns the corner and notices a crowd gathered outside the building where he’s been staying. Large plumes of smoke are billowing above it, and there are a firetruck and two police squad cars parked out front.

_What the…?_

Jason hurries over and stares up, dumbstruck, to see a chunk of the edifice missing.

The spot where his bolthole used to be.

Someone firebombed the place.

Murmurs rise up all around him.

“I heard the guy living there was cooking meth, and it blew up.” 

“Nah, there was a terrorist holed up in there. Probably didn’t set the timer on his bomb properly.”

“This fucking neighborhood.”

“I know, right?”

But Jason barely synthesizes the information, so fixated on one thing.

Someone knows.

Maybe they don’t know about him—he’s never come out of here without either a mask on or a hoodie or hat—but someone must have seen Red Hood come to this place. He’s swept for bugs and cameras, so there’s no way they’ve got a visual on him, but somehow they knew _that_ was his apartment.

It’s too precise.

Which means his other places might be compromised, too.

Jason turns and walks away from the building, thoughts racing.

He wonders furiously about who it could be, who knows about his boltholes. Roy and Kori, obviously; he told them in case anything ever happens to him or if he doesn’t contact them for a while. He’s got a list of Roy’s in Star City and the tropical hideaways Kori’s come to enjoy over the years. They all call it insurance, but it’s a way of checking up on each other.

He could see the Joker figuring it out, but the gradually escalating attacks on Red Hood are too subtle for that maniac. Jason doubts they’ve seen the end of him since he made his last disappearing act, but this isn’t him. The clown likes an audience, likes to be noticed. These attacks are being done from the shadows and required a lot of planning.

Could be Talia, since he’s sure she’s been keeping tabs on him even long after they parted ways. She’d see it as leverage, as protecting an investment even if it didn’t give her the returns she expected.

And the Bats, of course, but none of them is the type to send a message with explosives, even when they’re all at odds.

It looks like Jason will have to lie low for a bit, watch his territory from the shadows. Deep surveillance.

He heads for his apartment in Crime Alley, which should be safe enough; he never goes anywhere near it when in uniform. Jason can regroup from there, remote-access surveillance from the moment before the safe house was bombed, check on the other boltholes from afar and—

And run straight into Tim Drake.

The kid’s bundled into a winter coat, but it hangs open, revealing the clothes he was wearing during his news conference meltdown. He’s missing the suit jacket, and his tie is loose under the collar of his shirt, carrying a plastic bag from the bodega down the street. Jason can see what looks like a week’s worth of ramen and TV dinners through the flimsy plastic. 

All of which only serves to magnify that expression of absolute defeat on his face. That shifts into careful blankness when he recognizes Jason heading toward him.

The sight of him is the cherry on the top of Jason’s already shitty day.

“No,” he snaps, stalking forward and shoving a finger at Tim. “Fuck you. I’ve got enough of my own shit going on, I don’t have time to deal with your…all of this.” He gestures at the remains of Tim’s billionaire playboy costume. “What the hell are you even doin’ here, anyway?”

Tim sighs, weary. “I live here. Like…a block away.”

And it’s a measure of how messed up this new player in town has Jason that he actually forgot that tidbit. It makes him angrier to have it pointed out to him.

“Of fucking’ course you do! You’re everywhere else, why not my neck of the woods now, too?”

“I’ve lived here for a year and you never said anything,” Tim points out.

“Yeah, well, I never ran into you before, did I?”

He doesn’t add that that was before their whole soulmates thing got yanked out in the open.

“Being off-planet helps with that, I always figured,” Tim says blandly, and shoulders past Jason with all the strength of a sleepwalker.

Which just rubs Jason the wrong way.

He feels like he’s being dismissed, feels guilt that he doesn’t want to be feeling, and is still raring for a fight. Jason snaps his hand out and roughly pulls the other man around to face him; he expects a fist to block him, or for Tim to shove him off. Instead, he simply sways a bit on his feet like he’s trying to find balance.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong!_

“What the hell is your problem, Drake? Don’t tell me you’re sulkin’ about the soulmate thing? Is this the reason for the lame-ass robot impression you’ve been doin’ lately?”

Tim’s expression doesn’t change. “I honestly haven’t had the time to think about it. There’s a lot of work to keep me busy.”

“Right, forgot, you’ve got to be the perfect clone of B to get him to notice you. Guess that tanked today, huh? Newsflash, kid, you weren’t the first to be replaced, and I’m bettin’ you won’t be the last. Go get a life.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Tim replies vaguely. “It would be easier to do if you stayed away, though.”

“Yeah, well, my life would have been a lot easier if you didn’t exist!”

There’s a breath of heavy silence in the wake of that sentence.

Jason’s fury fizzles out like a candle doused in water the minute the syllables pass his lips. Right away, he wants to take it back, because of the way Tim nods, his expression slamming into a wall of resignation that gives Jason an uneasy feeling at the back of his neck and a pit in his gut.

He backtracks. “Look, that’s not what I—”

Whatever convoluted explanation he was going to dredge up is lost, because at that moment two things happen near simultaneously: a gunshot rips through the ambient noise of the night, and Tim jerks forward, suddenly in Jason’s space, shoving him to one side.

Blood sprays across Jason’s face, and there’s a searing hot pain on the side of his neck, that experience tells him is a bullet.

Just like experience tells him the kid now slumped in his arms, eyes wide and still trapped in that awful blank stare took the brunt of the shot—to his head.

⁂⁂⁂

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	4. Four

Jason’s body moves before his mind catches up, prompting him to drag them both to one side and out of any easy line of fire. There’s a small alley several yards away, and he does his best to get there without jarring the man in his arms. Tim’s eyes are wide in shock and pain, body crumpled and limp. Jason’s brain is numb as it scrambles to understand what just happened.

_Tim’s been shot. Tim’s been shot in the_ head.

There are screams from the other passersby on the street, people running and scattering like rats. It’s the middle of the day, but shootings aren’t out of place here; people know how to take cover. They also know not to relinquish that cover to help someone down by a bullet.

Even a Wayne.

Especially a Wayne. 

No one wants to provide another target to whoever’s decided to shoot up Crime Alley.

Except, Jason notes dimly, there hasn’t been another gunshot.

_Maybe whoever it is won’t waste bullets when there’s no target. _

Jason’s fingers are slick with blood, slipping against Tim’s neck as he looks for a pulse. It’s there, though weak, and Jason shifts automatically, angling him upright to keep him from choking on his own blood.

As he does his best to use his hands to staunch the bleeding, he snarls, “Don’t…you…dare…” 

Jason can’t remove his fingers to tap his comm; several seconds pass before he can nudge his ear hard enough with his shoulder to turn it on.

(He’s beyond thankful he put it back in when he returned to Gotham—doesn’t want to think how this could go if he hadn’t.)

“Drake’s been shot,” he barks when the telltale static hiss informs him, someone, somewhere is on the line. “GSW to the head, get a fuckin’ bus to Park Row and West.”

“En route,” he hears Batman growl immediately, followed by a series of horrified exclamations from other Bats.

Batgirl and Signal, he thinks, but he honestly isn’t paying attention to any of the entreaties over the line anymore. He’s too busy monitoring Tim’s condition, counting the younger man’s breaths, and the pauses in between. They seem like they’re getting longer. He tells himself it’s Tim, using that absurd Bat training to slow his breathing, but he knows better.

“Stay awake,” he orders. Tim’s breathing is wet and choked, and his eyes roll like he’s on the verge of unconsciousness. “Come on, you’ve never taken anything I’ve said seriously before, don’t you dare start with _this_.”

It’s the longest three minutes of his life, but then Batman is there, looming over them both. People across the street are staring—Batman doesn’t show up in daylight as much as Gotham’s other vigilantes do. Robin lurks at his side, normally dark skin pale as he regards Tim with a clenched jaw. For once, the kid has no smart-ass comments.

Instead, he moves forward and makes a gesture as if he intends to take Tim’s weight from Jason, who shakes his head sharply.

“I’ve got him,” he snaps. “If we move him more than we need to he could bleed out. Go check those rooftops across the street. Look for evidence of a sniper, any clue about what fucker did this.”

For a wonder, Robin doesn’t even argue; he’s gone between one blink and the next.

“The ambulance will be here in another minute, and Dr. Thompkins is on the way to Gotham General,” Batman says. Of course; brain injury is more than she can handle in her clinic. “What. Happened.”

“High-velocity bullet entered from the back of the head,” Jason says, automatically switching into report mode. “Based on the angle it was—”

“That’s not what I meant. What were you doing here?”

It’s not a question, and the tone is almost accusing; Jason recoils as if slapped. Only practice keeps his hands immobile on Tim’s wound.

“This is _my_ fucking neighborhood!”

“And normally you avoid Tim. What were you doing with him?”

“Exactly _what_ are you implying?”

There’s no answer as the ambulance arrives, two technicians jumping out and hurrying over to Tim. Another unloads a stretcher and gear, which they start to set up. Batman vanishes and Jason focusses all his attention on whatever the techs are telling him as they work on Tim.

He’s not sure how long it is before they finally lift Tim out of his arms. Suddenly Dick is there, dressed in colorful tropical clothing too ridiculous for February, bare arms and legs chapped from what appears to have been a frantic ride on a motorcycle.

“I thought you were in Hawaii,” he thinks he says; thankfully, Dick isn’t paying attention.

“Tim? Oh my God, Tim! What happened?!”

“Sniper,” Jason says as the paramedics hurry the still form of the youngest former Robin into the back of the ambulance.

“I’m coming with him,” Dick announces, already climbing into the vehicle with the techs.

“Sir, you can’t—”

“I’m his brother, and I’m a cop,” he snaps. “And if none of that matters to you, my father’s fucking Bruce Wayne. You’ll never work again if you don’t get my little brother to the hospital _now_!”

The doors slam shut, and the ambulance tears around the corner. Jason remains standing in the middle of the street, blood still soaking his clothing as the crowd of onlookers grows.

“What about you?” a voice asks, and Jason jumps when he notices that Robin has returned.

“Did you find anything?” he responds, ignoring the question.

“Nothing.”

“What?” Jason snaps, glowering down at the thirteen-year-old. “That’s not possible.”

_No sign of a sniper my ass. There must be something. Even fucking Deadshot leaves evidence._

“I know how to survey a scene, Todd, and there was nothing—where are you going?”

“Somewhere I can make a damn difference,” Jason retorts, already stalking away.

“I’m coming with—”

“Batman needs you more than I do, kid.”

He doesn’t wait to see if Damian listens, too intent on running far and as fast as he can. He won’t wait around to answer questions from the cops, could still be a target—

_How the fuck did I become a target, to begin with? How did they figure me out?_

He heads for Byron Avenue, keeping close to the buildings and out of open space that might prompt another attack, then ducks into the subway station. Besides his safe houses, he has several caches all around the city with spare gear and basic medical kits.

After double and triple-checking that he isn’t being followed, he heads for a storm drain where he’s stashed a waterproof bag with everything he needs. There he changes into his helmet and gear, leaving the blood-soaked hoodie and jeans behind.

Returning to the scene of the shooting, Jason makes his own investigation of the rooftops. The building he thinks was the sniper’s nest provides an excellent vantage point. Down on the pavement, he can see the drying puddle of Tim’s blood—but it’s as Damian said. There is no sign of a shooter—no footprints, hair, bullet casings.

_So, whoever this is got wise since the last time, or…_

His thoughts stutter, interrupted by the memory of Tim’s wide-eyed stare and he swears.

_That’s not going to help find the fucker who did this._

He refocuses, tries to put himself in the sniper’s position. What would he do once he didn’t hit his target?

Honestly, he’d have kept shooting, so why didn’t this guy? Unless _Tim_ was the target—which is possible, but unlikely. Red Hood’s the one that’s had some kind of silent war declared on him. The last time Jason checked the only major grudge against Red Robin from someone who knows his identity was Ra’s al-Ghul.

_And he has a gigantic, creepy crush of Tim’s brain, so probably not going to risk breaking it._

Jason’s thinking in circles now and it makes him want to punch something—so he does. The wall doesn’t give, and he’s sure he sprained one of his knuckles, but the pain focuses him.

“He’s gonna be okay.”

Jason jerks around, hand flying to his hip holster as Signal appears beside him. “Christ, kid, don’t sneak up on me today.”

“O says he’s in surgery,” Duke goes on as if he didn’t almost get shot. “They had him in the operating room within fifteen minutes of him getting shot. You did a good job of keeping him stable.”

“If I’d been doing a good job, I’d have noticed some asshole taking a shot at us,” Jason growls. A moment later it dawns on him why Signal is here. “Did _he_ send you to read the area?”

Duke nods and surveys the rooftop. “This the place?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“Pretty damn,” Jason replies. “A bullet’s trajectory doesn’t lie.”

“Point.”

“So what can you see?”

“Gimme a minute, it’s not like a switch I can just flip,” Duke retorts. He takes a few steps toward the edge of the building and stands still for a moment. Jason recognizes his posture as one of the standing meditative stances Bruce uses.

It’s several long minutes, where the only change is Duke’s breathing becoming a little more labored and his shoulders tensing a bit.

“Okay, I think…I think I got something,” he says, cocking to his head to one side as if he’s listening to something Jason can’t hear. “Yeah, there was definitely someone here—set the gun up here—” He waves a hand over the edge without touching it. “—but that’s it.”

“What.” Jason narrows his eyes.

Duke’s shoulders relax as if in defeat. “Exactly what it sounds like. I can’t tell anything, man.”

His frustration matches Jason’s. “You just said you saw someone.”

“I did. But whoever they are, they’re dressed all in black, wearing a balaclava and visor. Average height, average build—I guess more on the athletic side? I can’t even tell if they’re male or female. Could be government, could be a new mask, could be ninjas for all I know.”

“In my experience, ninja favor swords and shuriken instead of high-caliber sniper rifles.”

“Hah.” Duke pauses, and when Jason remains silent, tilts his head to one said. “Wait. You’re not kidding.”

Jason doesn’t answer, instead takes out his grapple gun and shoots a line to rappel down the side of the building.

“You’re welcome,” he hears Duke mutter behind him.

Jason needs information, and none of his people are talking to him right now. He could contact Oracle, but—no, probably with the Family right now, if Dick’s here already.

_But she’s also protective as hell, so she’ll be working this even if she’s in waiting to find out if Tim’s…_

Jason’s brain stalls again, the image of Tim in his arms, the stickiness of the blood, expression resigned after what Jason says—

Against his will, against his attempts to keep busy, his brain seems keen to remind him that his soulmate was just shot in front of him. That he very well might die—could be dead already.

_“Yeah, well, my life would have been a lot easier if you didn’t exist!”_

Suddenly it’s of dire importance that he finds out how Tim’s doing.

Gambling on Dick’s presence signifying a fortuitous early return of the honeymooners, he flicks through the channels on his comm until it gets to Oracle’s frequency.

“Is he…?”

“Are you coming to the hospital?” she interrupts, her regular voice sharp in his ear.

“Don’t think I’d be very welcome there.”

“B isn’t here. He’s been doing the same thing as you. It’s why he sent Signal your way while he tracks down possible witnesses.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? That’s his kid in there!”

“When have you ever known him to sit around and wring his hands when something like this happens?” 

Jason growls at that.

“Listen, I get why you might not want to come. But you should. It would make Dick feel better at least. He’s a wreck and needs his siblings right now.”

“Cass and the brat aren’t there already?”

“They are. But you’re his brother too.”

He snorts.

“Don’t give me that. He is. And Tim is too.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Oh, for god’s sake, why do you have to be so difficult!” Barbara snaps. “Pull your head out of your ass for once in your life and be here for your family. Gotham General, Room 1602. If you don’t show up at least once, I’ll load viruses in all of your tech for the next year.”

There’s a definitive click that closes the conversation.

Jason scowls into the distance.

_She would, too._

Another ten minutes of debating with himself, and he heads toward the hospital.

⁂

Jason can’t bring himself to enter the hospital, to sit around with the rest of the Family and pretend that he’s one of them. Not with Bruce’s cold question ringing in his ears.

_“What were you doing?”_

Still, he brings up the floor plans to the building on the screen in his helmet, uses it to pinpoint where Tim is. He climbs the nearest fire escape and fixes a grapnel to the window outside the conference room that has become an impromptu private waiting room for the Wayne family.

They’re all there, talking in hushed voices like it’s already Tim’s funeral. The undercurrent of tension and fear is so tangible it permeates the walls of the building. It sounds like even Bruce is there now, and Jason wonders if Barbara threatened him, too.

Jason’s got his microphones tuned into the sound inside and can hear every whisper. None of it is relevant to Tim’s condition, so he ignores most of it.

“Okay, you harpy, I’m here,” he mutters into his comm, digging with his free hand into his pocket for. “But I ain’t comin’ in, so don’t push it.”

The words _it’s a start_ flash across his screen, and he rolls his eyes as he fits the cigarette to his lips.

Jason stays there for what seems like hours, hanging along the wall like a living shadow and smoking like a chimney. When his hand is empty, he’s not staring at it, watching his soulmark as it fades in and out of existence. He’s never focused so much on the eddying patterns of color before, or what they mean.

He’s also not sure if he’s relieved or terrified to realize he has a more accurate idea of Tim’s condition than the Family waiting on updates.

It feels like forever before there’s movement inside, bodies jumping to standing, and the sound of a door opening. Jason presses closer to the window, his entire body rigid in anticipation. It’s Doc Thompkins greeting them.

Instantly, everyone is clamoring around her.

“Is he okay?”

“How much longer will the surgery take?”

“Will he be alright—”

“He will be out of surgery soon,” Thompkins says, cutting everyone’s questions. “And as of right now, his odds are as good as they can be.”

There’s a collective sigh of relief; Blondie gives a half-sob and Alfred murmurs a prayer of gratitude under his breath. Something in Jason’s chest, which he hadn’t noticed has been clenched since he processed the fact that Tim was_ shot_, loosens.

“The bullet went through clean,” Thompkins continues, “and it didn’t stay in the brain, which has kept the damage minimal. From what Tim’s neurosurgeon Dr. Scherr described, it entered from the back and exited the front, traveling the length of the left hemisphere. He’s still extracting the skull fragments from the brain matter and dealing with the other injuries to his head, but otherwise, Tim should be out of surgery soon.”

Dick makes a choked noise, and Bruce begins, “The team working on him—”

“Have all been vetted,” Thompkins assures him. “I have complete trust in their discretion. And I will continue to monitor him myself once I finish updating you.”

A collective wave of relief settles across the room.

“He’s not out of the woods yet,” Thompkins warns. “The surgeon had to remove part of his skull to allow for swelling without compression. It will need to remain open for a while. They’ll keep him in an induced coma for some time to allow his brain to rest.”

“How long will that be?” Blondie asks.

“They won’t replace the piece of the skull until they’re sure there are no bacteria from the bullet remaining, which could be awhile. As for the coma, that will depend on him. It will last as long as it needs to last.”

“But he’s…he’ll live?” Dick asks.

“That remains to be seen,” the woman sighs. “A person’s chances of survival depend on the areas of the brain that struck, the velocity of the bullet, whether the bullet exits the brain.” Jason hears a shift of clothing, no doubt something like a shrug. “I can say this, it’s a good thing it passed only through the left hemisphere; if it had been both, the damage would be worse, if not fatal.”

“I don’t understand,” Cass says. “He is…okay. But not.”

“The brain can sometimes tolerate losing one half,” Bruce explains to her, though his voice does not sound as optimistic as that news might call for. “Sometimes.”

“The bullet didn’t touch the brain stem or the thalamus and missed the major blood vessels, the ventricles…that’s good news,” Thompkins says. “As for the bad news…”

“The left side of the brain controls language and speech.”

“Exactly. So, in the coming days, he’ll be under observation and when he wakes up, we’ll see if he’s able to process anything.” Thompkins sighs. “I won’t lie to you. His recovery process will be a long one.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time for one of us,” Dick says, trying to sound hopeful.

“When can we see him?” Blondie wants to know.

“As requested, a private room is being set up for him. Once he’s brought in, you can go see him one at a time. He won’t be awake for a while, though.”

It’s as promising a prognosis as it can be, and Jason decides that the kid’s in good hands. He’s met Barbara’s ultimatum, and he’s assuaged any minor concern he might have about Tim. There’s nothing else for him to do here.

Jason turns away from the window and releases the grip on his grapple to allow him to rappel down the wall.

_Back to the drawing board_, he decides. Maybe if he looks at the scene from a different vantage point, he’ll get some inspiration. Track down any witnesses and if Batman hasn’t scared the piss out of them yet, ask his own questions.

It’s time to put the fear of Red Hood back into the hearts of the criminal underworld.

⁂

Two weeks later, as Jason numbly stares up at the fiery remnants of his last safe house in Gotham, he realizes it might be time to go underground.

Every day since Tim’s shooting, it’s been another attack on him, either with his boltholes' destruction or the people on his payroll turning on him. The word is out that he’s got a price in his head, and everyone’s trying to collect.

The smart thing would be to leave Gotham for a bit, regroup and plan his bloody answer for his latest challenger in the shadows. But Jason’s always had a stubborn streak. If a soulmate crisis can’t keep him out of his city, some upstart trying to take over the Gotham underworld won’t do it either.

But until he can get a better understanding of what’s going on, he’s putting more and more people in danger. Two of the working girls were attacked since the first safe house was bombed. And there’s that horrible, needling sense that what happened to Tim was because of _Jason_ that won’t go away.

No one’s going to work with Red Hood right now, and it’s too dangerous to start asking questions outside of the mask. Especially if someone has a vague description of him in mind.

But he has a plan.

Unfortunately, the plan requires Red Hood to die for a little while.

It’s easy to find a body to stick in the ruins of his safe house. He’s got an in at the morgue and his pick of John Does for the right price—someone of his height and build. The most difficult bit is transporting the body and wrestling it into his spare gear and a helmet.

And then he disappears; grabs a go-bag from another cache (those haven’t been found, which is at least one thing going right), sneaks through sewers and backstreets to avoid being followed. He’s been switching motels every day—sometimes twice a day—and paying in cash, so if anyone’s watching his online presence they can’t track him that way.

A trip to an outlet mall in Otisburg provides him a new wardrobe (one that more closely resembles something Bruce might wear, albeit at a lower price and quality). After the last stop in a pharmacy, he’s got everything he needs to bleach his hair and tint it closer to his natural shade; he’s stopped shaving, so the stubble will eventually grow in a matching color. Finally, he takes a page out of Superman’s book and adds a thick-rimmed pair of glasses.

He frowns at himself in the cheap mirror of his temporary room, unable to see anything of himself in the reflection.

_I look like a douchebag grad student._

It’s time to begin the next part of his plan, but he finds himself hesitating. His eyes stray to the mark on his hand, which he’s looked at more in the past two weeks than every year since it appeared on his skin.

Tim’s still alive, but there hasn’t been any news on that front. Nothing mentioned in the news beyond replays of someone’s shoddy cellphone recording the shooting. He’s looked that footage over from every angle, hoping to find a clue in it as to the identity of the shooter, but there’s nothing to find.

He hasn’t run into another cape for two weeks now. Though he’s heard snatches of conversation on the comms suggesting they’re still around, he suspects it’s not in full force. If things are dire, that would explain the lack of vigilante activity in the city right now.

Jason sits on the decision for another two hours before deciding to bite the bullet and head to the hospital. He should at least check in once more before going into hiding.

(Not because he’s worried about Tim beyond the cursory sense of not wanting him to be dead.)

Alfred is the first to see him as he ambles through the door, eyes widening imperceptibly. “Master Jason.”

The words cause an immediate reaction. He didn’t tell anyone he was coming, figuring they’d tell him not to bother or call security on him. As such, the sudden rise in tension as he shuffles into the room is understandable.

Steph sits bolt upright from where she was lying head in Cass’s lap, and Babs mouth draws into a thin line, though she gives him a nod. Duke pushes off from the nearby wall, uncrosses his arms like he’s ready to throw down if something goes wrong. Dick, though, seems lost, stumbling from his chair and over to Jason, looking torn between hugging him or shaking him.

Bruce and Damian are nowhere in sight, for which he is both grateful and a bit resentful.

_There’s no way they went on patrol tonight, is there?_

And then there’s Tim. Lying in the hospital bed, bandaged and bundled into something like a hockey helmet, his usually pale skin impossibly white. Jason can see the veins beneath it even from this distance. He looks so much smaller and weaker than Jason remembers him being.

He has the bizarre urge to check his pulse again, just to feel it beating, even as the monitor he’s hooked up to beeps out a steady rhythm.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Steph demands though Cass reaches out to squeeze her hand. She shakes her head at her soulmate and then looks up at Jason with a small, encouraging smile.

“He is here. For Tim.”

There’s a sharp stab of fear just then, that Cass might _know_. That any or all of them might, but like Tim, just never mentioned it. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility for the Bats to keep something from him to protect one of their own.

_Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea._

He shifts his weight, ready to step back into the hallway, but Dick seems to come to a decision then. He envelops Jason in a sudden hug which makes him tense up and clench his fists so he doesn’t reflexively punch him.

“Thank you,” Dick breaths, pressing his head against Jason’s shoulder. “You kept him alive. If it weren’t for you…”

“Don’t go thanking me yet,” Jason dismisses, pulling away. “He’s still in a fuckin’ coma.”

“But he could be dead,” Dick says, not seeming bothered by Jason’s rejection. “You saved him.”

_Or got him shot in the first place._

As inaccurate as Dick’s sentiments might be, they do the job of diffusing the tension; everyone relaxes, and Alfred gets up from his chair to greet Jason. He doesn’t hug him, but in an uncharacteristic touchiness, squeezes his shoulder.

“I can only echo Master Richard’s sentiments,” he says, and then considers Jason. His mouth quirks in a smile at his hair. “And that is a look I have not seen in many years.”

It takes a moment before Jason understands, and then he shifts in something like embarrassment. “Yeah, well, it’s only temporary.”

“A shame. Do you know how many chemicals and carcinogens are in those awful dyes you continue to use?”

“I think at this point, cancer is the last thing that’s going to kill me,” Jason replies dryly.

“Should have known he was a ginger,” Steph mutters not quite under her breath. “It’s the lack of soul that should have given it away.”

“Want to run that one by me again?” Barbara asks lightly, but there’s a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“I already know you don’t have a soul, boss lady,” Steph replies. “Not with how many times you’ve sent me into Gotham’s sewers. You’re Beelzebub as far as I’m concerned.”

“Steph, knock it off,” Dick says.

“I’m just saying, it’s not beyond the realm of possibility. I mean, he was dead, who knows what kind of Hell STD he might have picked up.”

“He’s here to check on Tim, not pick a fight.”

“I don’t know, I could probably use one,” Jason replies thoughtfully.

Steph bares her teeth. “Me too.”

“You will do no such thing. Either of you,” Alfred pronounces, in the voice that even Batman doesn’t argue with. “Master Richard, perhaps you might update our new arrival as to Master Timothy’s condition? If only to stave off any further bloodshed?”

Jason and Steph both slump, chastised, but Dick is already nodding.

“The first two or three days were hard,” he says, motioning for Jason to come further into the room. “They woke him every few hours to check for responsiveness, and he was able to make some noise, which the neurologist said was a good sign. But then the third day the swelling got really bad. They were worried they’d have to go for another surgery to relieve the pressure, but it went down on its own.” 

“The neurosurgeon says we won’t know if that caused any other damage until he fully wakes up,” Barbara adds.

“The next day they reduced to sedation to see if he could breathe on his own, which he could,” Dick goes on. “They had to put him back on at the time, but Leslie says the fact he had the ability so early in the healing process is a good sign.”

“Then the day after, when they changed his bandages, he opened his eyes.”

“Was he okay?” Jason asks before he can stop himself, eyes flitting to Tim and back.

Dick shakes his head sadly. “He couldn’t see anything. The doctors tested that first thing, and nothing. He was trying to speak, though, and kept choking around the tube in his throat. They had to put him under again.”

“Shit.”

“That was last Tuesday. Friday they decided to check his breathing again, and that time they brought him in for a tracheotomy to give him a smaller ventilator tube. They want him to get used to breathing on his own again, slowly. Then on Sunday, they fixed the damage around his eye-socket.”

“As much as they could, I guess,” Steph adds with a sigh, settling back against Cass. “He’s going to have a scar there even if he gets reconstructive surgery.”

“Luckily we have no need to create a cover story for that scenario,” Alfred says. “The press has been airing the news about the shooting for two weeks now.”

“He has been shot. Twice. In the last year,” Cass points out. “Big news for them.”

“I think Vicki Vale might actually be crouched in a corner somewhere in the hospital live-tweeting the whole thing,” Steph complains.

“She is not,” Alfred snorts. “Master Bruce gave explicit orders that the hospital would be losing significant financial contribution if his family’s privacy was not prioritized at this time.”

“Must be nice to own the world, huh?”

“They downgraded his condition from critical to serious this Tuesday. We’ve all just been hanging out here in case he wakes up,” Dick concludes, and he seems exhausted after going through all of that.

“No one’s out there?” Jason asks, jerking his head toward the city beyond Tim’s room window.

“Everyone takes shifts. B and R were on tonight, but they should be back soo—”

“What is this?”

Everyone turns to face Bruce, who looms in the doorway, brows drawing downward; there’s some swelling in his jaw that even make-up can’t quite cover, no doubt a souvenir from tonight’s patrol. Behind him is a petite nurse and Damian, who peeks around his father’s bulk and imitates his scowl.

“Todd. What are _you_ doing here?”

“Mr. Wayne, is there a problem?” the nurse considers the sudden tension in the room, and then frowns at Jason. “Young man, only family should be in here right now.”

“I was just leaving,” Jason says. It’s easier to run than to explain that, technically, he’s family, even if Jason Todd Wayne has been dead for years. He doesn’t belong here anyhow.

But then Dick, the fucker, opens his goddamn mouth.

“He _is _family,” he insists, shooting Bruce a warning look. “J—Todd lives with Tim. It’s not exactly a matter of public record, though, so we’d appreciate your discretion.”

The nurse blinks and then understanding passes across her face. “I apologize, I didn’t know you were partners. I’ve never seen you here in the past two weeks.”

There’s a note of reproach there.

Jason almost swallows his tongue at the implication, wanting to deny it immediately, but the look on her face is full-on judgment. And he kind of wants to put her in her place.

“Stationed in Syria. Manbij,” he tells her with a glare. “Only just got approved for leave.”

As expected, she flinches. “Oh. I see. Well, thank you for your service.”

And she makes herself scarce as if worried she’s going to put her foot in it again.

Damian snorts, unimpressed. “Really, Todd? Impersonating a veteran?”

“Fuck you, we’re all veterans in one way or another.”

“Language,” Alfred reminds, and motions them all inside, “And if we might take this discussion away from prying ears?”

Bruce lets himself be guided in, still watching Jason with the air of someone waiting for a bomb to go off. Jason shoots Dick a glare. “You couldn’t have come up with a better story?”

“It’s more believable than you being Bruce’s dead adopted son that got resurrected in a pit of green goo. Or were you hoping to make an Oliver Queen style comeback?”

Jason has nothing to say to that, but eventually manages an uncomfortable, “Point.”

“Mazel tov.”

And there’s a shadow of a grin there, an attempt at humor in the face of the dark situation they’ve all found themselves in.

_Though he probably wouldn’t find it as funny if he knew the truth._

“Isn’t there something you want to say to Jason, Bruce?” Barbara prompts, tone hard.

There’s a pause, and then the older man’s frown eases the slightest bit.

“The life-saving measures you employed were integral to Tim’s survival.” His shoulders lose some of their tension, then. “Thank you, Jay.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to acknowledge it, to say ‘you’re welcome’, and accept the praise. But the idea he might be responsible for Tim even being here keeps him from getting the words past his lips.

“I need a cigarette,” he says, and heads for the door.

“Wait, Jason, you don’t have to—” Dick begins.

“Cool your jets, Dickhead, I’m coming back,” he mutters. “I just need some air.”

“You know you just completely contradicted yourself, right?” Damian points out.

“You’re staying?” Dick asks, hopeful.

Jason has been lying, but there’s something desperate on Dick’s face. He remembers what Barbara said, about Dick needing his siblings right now. And the last time he outright rejected someone they ended up getting shot.

His eyes flick back to Tim, the image of blood and wide blue eyes flashing in his mind.

“Yeah,” he sighs and mentally postpones his plans. “Yeah, I guess so.”

⁂

It’s two more days of waiting before Tim wakes up.

Early Saturday morning, Dr. Scherr and Dr. Thompkins announce that his condition has once more been updated, from serious to good. It’s decided to wake him up to check his functionality.

The private room is big enough to accommodate everyone, but they hang back quietly against the wall as the doctors go about bringing him out of the coma. Bruce parks himself beside Tim’s bedside, holding his hand, while Alfred takes up space behind him as the nurse injects something into Tim’s IV.

It feels almost like everyone is holding their breath waiting for him to regain consciousness.

There are several minutes of silence before the eye that isn’t bandaged flutters and droops open. The blue is dulled by the medication, but the shade is exactly the one that’s been haunting Jason’s thoughts since the shooting.

“Good morning, Timothy,” Dr. Scherr says with a small smile. “You’ve been asleep for a while. Can you understand me?”

Tim groans.

“No, don’t try to speak. You have a tube right now that’s been helping you breathe. We’re going to take it out, in a moment. But for now, just blink once for ‘yes’, two for ‘no’. Understand?”

Tim’s eye droops closed and then slowly opens again.

“That’s great,” Scherr says, and then turns to Bruce. “He has some comprehension. This is an excellent sign.”

Bruce leans forward. “It’s good to see you awake, Tim. We’ve all been very worried.”

Tim’s brow wrinkles as he stares at Bruce, eye blank, and he squints into the distance at the group of people gathered in chairs along the wall.

“Do you remember what happened to you?” Dr. Thompkins prompts, drawing Tim’s attention to her. It’s a slow process, and she has to repeat the question once he focuses on her again.

Two agonizingly slow blinks.

Thompkins and Scherr look concerned, but continue on, asking a series of simple questions and asking if he can move certain parts of his body. There is an astounding number of negative responses that have them exchanging grim looks with Bruce.

“Tim, do you know who we are?” Bruce says at last, wary.

He receives a pained look in response like Tim is trying his best to recall, but the information isn’t there. At last, he blinks twice.

Alfred makes a sound like he’s been punched, Bruce’s expression darkens, and the others give varied noises of dismay.

_He doesn’t remember anyone. Fuck, that’s not good._

Worse, Tim appears aware of this failing. The monitor on his heart is beginning to speed up, and his breathing becomes choked.

“What’s going on?” Dick asks, voice strained.

“Tim? Tim, are you okay?” Steph clamors. “Can we get you anything?”

“He has a tube down his throat, Brown, you really think he’s going to answer you?”

“Shut up, gremlin, it’s the thought that counts!”

“Perhaps you should all take a step back,” Thompkins suggests. “This is stressful enough for him.”

“He doesn’t recognize us,” Bruce states, having caught the same thing Jason did. “I want to see the chart. Exactly what parts of the brain were compromised?”

“This isn’t your company, Bruce, you can’t order people around, I don’t care how much money—”

“Would you guys knock it off?” Jason speaks up in irritation, taking a few steps forward. “You’re freakin’ him out.”

Tim’s good eye darts in the direction of Jason, and there’s a moment of non-recognition that hits him a little harder than he would have thought. Then Tim frowns, attention going to his right hand, where the fingers have begun to twitch.

And in front of everyone, his wrist suddenly explodes with swirling blooms of red and gold knotwork. The colors travel along his forearm and almost all the way up to his shoulder and beneath the cotton of his hospital gown.

Jason experiences the corresponding heat in his left as his own mark reacts and shoves his hand in his pocket, hoping no one notices.

No such luck.

While everyone else is focussed on Tim, the bedridden young man is zeroed in on Jason. His drugged gaze seemingly instantly drawn to the color, something like recognition flickers within his eyes. When he looks at Jason again, there’s an unmistakable glimmer of hope. His mouth parts, like he wants to speak. He can’t quite shape the words, though, beyond a raspy moan at the back of his throat.

It’s clear, though, what he’s trying to say, and everyone is now glancing from Tim to Jason in confusion. Except for Bruce, whose face is awash with conflicting emotions: shock, dismay, and concern.

_Of course, he saw it._

“Is this true?” he asks Jason, eyes piercing.

“Is what true?” Dick wants to know; he’s confused and worried, and there’s a hint of protective anger there.

Everyone is staring at him now. Jason can’t help the sudden swell of panic, imitating a deer in the headlights as everyone in the family is suddenly laser-focused on him.

He could lie.

His mark is still covered, Tim’s the only one who saw it in full, Bruce is only guessing. Jason could deny it and back out of the room and not come back. Everyone might be happier if he did that, and it would keep the peace; keep them off his back about it.

But Tim looks so small and lost there, unable to recognize anyone there. Right now, he’s completely alone but for Jason.

_And isn’t that fucked up?_

He squares his shoulders, deciding that he’s gotten used to doling out the blunt honesty by now, hang the consequences. And for everything else’s he done, lying outright about being Tim’s soulmate is very different from pretending not to know. It’s wrong somehow, in the same way selling drugs to kids is wrong.

“Yeah,” he says, though the word cracks in his throat and he has to clear it, say it louder, “Yeah, I am.”

“Bullshit,” Steph says automatically, disbelief and anger evident in the snap of her eyes.

“Miss Stephanie Alfred chides, but it sounds vague, like a reflex instead of actual admonition.

And it’s that more than anything that gets Jason tugging off his glove and rolling up his sleeve. Everyone else can look at him however they want, but he doesn’t want Alfred to think he’s the type of person to joke or lie about this. 

There are murmurs from all around as everyone watches his mark blossom across his exposed skin, moving in the same manner as Tim’s—reaching out for its mate.

Tim’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying to smile, but can’t quite manage it. Then his eyes blink a few times, slowing, before closing completely.

“What’s happening?” Jason demands. Did he do something to mess him up again?

“It’s alright,” Thompkins says. “It’s a lot of energy for him to expend, even for short times, and the sedatives are still in his system. He’ll wake up sporadically until he kicks them.

“…Right.”

“Can we come back to the fact that Todd’s his soulmate?” Damian points out. “I think that’s more of a cause for concern.”

“I can’t believe it. You’re actually…” Dick falters, looking like he’s trying to reconcile bits of knowledge together like pieces of two different puzzles.

“I don’t understand,” the nurse says, having watched the exchange from her spot beside Tim’s IV stand. “You implied before that they lived together—how could you not know?”

“They just started seeing each other,” Barbara speaks up from her corner, only the tiniest hesitation before the lie. “I guess they didn’t want to tell us yet. I mean, Bruce and…_Todd_ don’t get along.”

“Well, you had better get over that quickly,” the nurse states, frowning at Bruce. “Because as now, that young man has more right to be here than any of you.” She turns to face Jason. “Timothy’s under a lot of stress right now, you don’t want him picking up on yours too. You want anyone here gone, I’ll get them out of here.”

Jason can’t hold back the choked laughter at the idea of the four-foot-nothing nurse looking at Bruce like she’ll kneecap him if he questions her.

And wouldn’t that be a trip? Insisting everyone leave because by some ridiculous twist of fate he’s connected to Tim more than anyone else is? Normally, he’d get a kick out of the power he’s suddenly got.

Today, it feels hollow.

“No. No, they stay,” he says after a breath. “They’re his family.”

Another almost unnoticeable release of tension in the room, like they all expected him to kick them out after all.

_I’m not _that_ much of an asshole._

The nurse nods, eyes softening in something like respect or approval, and turns to leave. “Well, if there’s anything, you call me. Just ask for Judy”

When she’s gone, Jason forces him to look up at Bruce at last. The man’s expression is dark, looking more like Batman than Bruce Wayne, and it’s directed at him.

_Should have taken my chance on the streets…_

⁂⁂⁂

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr (violetsmoak) for news regarding updates--or just to drop me a line :)


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note(s):** And now for something completely different... And by different, I mean we get a brief bit of hope in this angst-fest.

His name is Tim, but that’s about all he knows.

He has no memory of anything from before. Who he is. What happened to him.

There is a constant, throbbing, white-hot pain in his head.

The room is full of people. Some wear white coats—doctors. The others—strangers—say they are family. They all carry themselves the same way, but none of them look _alike_.

He wonders what he looks like.

They say someone shot him.

They say he will be okay. That he is safe.

The first thing sounds right. It explains why he can’t remember. It explains why his head hurts.

But the other things?

He has trouble believing that. He doesn’t know them. They are talking at him. Words that he knows individually, but together make no sense. Everything is heavy and hazy. And painful.

He wants to tell them that but can’t. Even as panic beats against his chest, the words get stuck.

But then _he_ appears in his line of vision.

The redheaded man with snapping blue-green eyes who everyone else is uncomfortable around. The sight of him makes Tim calm. That and the warmth winding across the skin of his right hand. He can’t see the colors on his arm well himself—can’t move to check—but he’s seen them on the man.

The tiny boy that looks like a gremlin and always glares called him ‘Todd’. Tim thinks that’s his name.

Todd has pulled his coat sleeve back down, hiding the pattern from view, but it’s still there. Still a comfort.

Tim’s soulmate is here.

If his soulmate is in the room, the strangers must have told the truth. He is safe.

And he knows things like this—soulmates and how to count and the color of the sky outside of his window. General things. Common knowledge. Not so many things about himself. Or these people he doesn’t recall.

It’s exhausting trying to puzzle it all out. Before he can, he falls asleep.

It happens a lot.

He loses track of how many times he swims in and out of consciousness. He can’t tell the difference being asleep or awake for the longest time.

It’s a whole before the periods of being awake last longer. He can process more.

One morning, he realizes the difference between day and night sleeps. At night he wakes alone, though he sometimes imagines someone is watching him from the shadows. By day, the family surrounds him.

Men in uniform—police—have come to his room a few times to ask questions, but he’s been too heavy-tongued and hazy to answer. Even his blinking answers don’t appear useful to them.

Todd tells him one day they are looking into his shooting, wanting to know if he has any enemies. His smile is cold and his gaze upon the police remains wary and derisive. Like he doesn’t think they can help.

⁂

Todd isn’t always there when he wakes.

It seems like Tim’s soulmate is uncomfortable around the others. He thinks he remembers someone say they don’t get along. He might have dreamed that. But he _has_ noticed how he avoids the room when there are a lot of the others there.

Especially the older man.

Bruce.

Tim’s father.

Or so they say.

The others too, he thinks. The young man with the sad smile has referred to him as his father when the nurse was here. But he calls him Bruce.

Everyone calls him Bruce.

He doesn’t understand why. Why not ‘Dad’ or ‘Father’?

(No, that’s not true. He has heard the boy call him ‘Father’. But no one else does.)

After what seems like hours of reasoning, Tim decides he might be adopted. It would explain why none of them resemble each other. (Tim isn’t sure if he looks like the boy. He doesn’t think so. His skin is far paler.) Or maybe Bruce is a stepfather? But where is Tim’s mother? Does he have a mother? He must have at some point. Perhaps she’s dead, if she’s not here. Or run off.

He tries to feel sad about that but can’t manage it.

Tim doesn’t have much range of emotion right now. Panic, confusion. Sometimes relief, when Todd is there.

Curiosity, a few days later, as he studies his ‘family’.

The old gentleman with the accent is Alfred. Tim doesn’t know what his connection is, but it’s clear he is an important member. And uncle perhaps? Or Bruce’s father? It would track. Everyone calls each other by their first names in this family, or so Tim’s noticed.

The young man who always tries to be so bright is Richard. He introduces himself as Tim’s older brother. Everyone but Alfred calls him Dick. At first Tim thinks people just don’t like him, but it turns out, that’s the name he goes by. By choice. Strange. He’s married to Barbara, a woman in a wheelchair Tim only saw once, on that first day he was awake.

It’s Dick who introduces the others.

The boy, Damian, is his younger brother. It’s rare for him to talk to or even look at Tim. When he does, it’s with a scowl. He sits too far away for Tim to tell anything else about him. Maybe they were fighting before this happened?.

The small woman that drops in sometimes is his sister. Cassandra. She’s almost always accompanied by the pretty blonde, Stephanie, who shares her black and purple soulmark.

_Eggplant_, something tells him, in a rather pedantic manner. _Not purple, it’s eggplant._

Stephanie talks to Tim more than anyone else does. She keeps a running conversation as if he can respond. It’s something that both reassures and frustrates him. Beyond a few painful vocalizations, words run away from his mouth. The constant blinking answers make him fall asleep.

And there’s the black boy, Duke, who Tim figures is another brother though they didn’t introduce him as such. He sometimes sits beside Tim and watches American Ninja Warrior on the hospital television. He jokes with Tim that he’ll be able to pull off moves like that when he gets better.

Tim thinks that’s ridiculous, but it’s also a nice thought.

Today it is only Bruce, Alfred and Damian in the room with him. The former sits in a chair that seems comically small for his frame, head lolling as if he’s about to nod off. He’s only ever here in the mornings, disappearing in the afternoon and not returning until Tim wakes the next day.

Tim hasn’t seen him smile since he opened his eyes the first time. Alfred appears to be completing a large crossword puzzle, while Damian plays a handheld device and doesn’t acknowledge Tim.

Bruce notices Tim staring and straightens up. His expression softens. “Do you need me to get something for you, Tim? Some water.”

Tim blinks twice. No.

It’s the only reliable method of communication right now.

Richard—Dick—wanders in then, carrying an armful of chips and soda and a muffin. That wouldn’t be unusual—he’s always wandering in with snacks—but Todd sidles in after him. Tim’s stomach swoops with happiness.

The taller man leans against the doorframe like he needs to have a handy exit. Tim can understand the urge, even if he’s stuck in this bed. In his body.

But Todd is here, and it’s like having a safety net.

Even if he won’t come to sit with him when there are other people around. In fact, he avoids sitting right next to him unless Tim is on the verge of falling asleep. He’s tried pretending, but the damned monitors keep giving him away.

Dick distributes the snacks while offering Tim an apologetic smile—“Sorry, you’re still eating through a tube”—then holds his hand out to Todd in a ‘_gimme’_ gesture.

“What?” the redheaded man grumbles.

“Lighter.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t have one.”

“I’m not. What the hell do you need one for?”

“Jay,” Dick groans.

Tim has noticed the past few days that Todd gets called ‘Jay’ a lot, at least by Bruce and Dick. He wonders which is his real name.

In his head, he tries calling him Jay. He decides he likes it better. The name feels like it belongs to him.

Jay, then.

‘Jay’ grumbles and then digs into his pocket, handing over a silver lighter, which Dick swipes with a grin. Everyone watches, bemused, as he produces a cheap, sparkling pink birthday candle seemingly from nowhere, and sticks it in the muffin.

Damian looks up from his game at last and shoots Dick a judgemental scowl. “What ridiculousness are you getting on with now, Richard?”

He doesn’t speak like a child. Another thing Tim’s noticed. 

Dick doesn’t answer, lighting the candle and then holding it out to Bruce. The grin on his face is only a little pained.

“Happy 45th Birthday, B,” he declares. “I know it’s not the best time to celebrate, but…”

He trails off.

Bruce blinks at the proffered muffin as if he’s not sure what to say or do.

Alfred hums in amusement and approval. “It is rather thoughtful, Master Richard. And not to put too fine a point on it, but a birthday wish would not go amiss right now.”

“Does it count if everyone knows what that wish is gonna be?” Jay points out, crossing his arms.

“It could not hurt at this juncture.”

Tim isn’t sure what they’re talking about, but he watches along with everyone else as Bruce dutifully blows out the absurd looking candle.

“Many happy returns, sir,” Alfred tells him.

Tim frowns. Who calls their son or nephew ‘sir’?

There’s a knock at the door, and Jay tenses, turning around faster than Tim can track. His hand goes to something beneath his jacket, but he relaxes when he recognizes the woman—Dr. Thompkins.

Bruce stares at the bulge beneath Jay’s coat with a sour expression.

“Good morning, everyone, how are we today?” Dr. Thompkins asks.

“Well in body though considerably rumpled up in spirit,” Alfred informs her. Jay snorts in something like laughter. Tim doesn’t understand the joke, but from the lack of reaction from the others, neither do they.

Another doctor follows Thompkins in.

Dr. Scherr.

Tim has a vague sense of recognition. The man comes in every so often to check his chart and whisper quietly to the nurse.

Everyone looks at the newcomers now, anxious and expectant.

“Do you know what’s going on with Tim’s memory?” Bruce asks, putting the muffin to one side and standing.

“It appears Timothy is suffering a form of amnesia,” Scherr replies. “Though the procedure to treat the brain injury succeeded, the trauma has caused significant damage, resulting in what appears to be a dissociative fugue state.”

Tim frowns at the words, unable to make sense of them.

“How long will it last?” Dick wants to know.

“There’s no way to be sure. It could be days or months. It could be longer. The important thing is that you don’t try to force him to remember. Stressing over it might do more potential damage than good to a healing brain. For now, you and Timothy should focus on a plan for his physical rehabilitation. Re-learning to walk, strengthening fine motor skills and such.”

“Of course,” Bruce says. “Plans are underway right now to outfit the manor with mobility aids for when he returns home.” Jay seems to tense at that. “Dr. Thompkins has also recommended several specialists to come and work with him.”

“You shouldn’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. Wayne,” a new voice says.

Everyone turns to see yet another newcomer, a petite woman of Asian descent in a crisp pantsuit and carrying several folders. She wears a plastic lanyard Tim can’t make out, but the sight of it makes Jay clench his fists and even Dick’s expression goes cold.

“I’m Gillian Sato, Child Protective Services,” she introduces, like it’s a greeting and a warning. “I’m handling Timothy’s case.”

“_What_ case?” Bruce replies. “He’s an emancipated minor.”

“The keyword being ‘minor’,” the woman replies. “And when a young person comes into the hospital with injuries to the extent that Mr. Drake-Wayne did, the doctors always notify us.”

Thompkins blinks and then shoots a sharp frown at the male doctor, who shrugs, unrepentant.

“You get a lot of young people in the hospital for a sniper shot to the head?” Jay asks with a dark undertone in his voice.

Sato’s expression is nothing but contempt. “I was referring to the signs of malnutrition and broken bones—some of which are still healing. And the splenectomy scar that has no corresponding records attached to it. Several of the professionals overseeing his care remarked on it.”

Bruce’s face becomes hard as stone.

“Some are a few years old. Almost as old as when he was first adopted by Mr. Wayne,” she continues, waving a folder at them.

“Are you serious?” Dick snaps, as Tim processes this. He was right about being adopted then. But malnourished and injured? That’s a surprise.

“As serious as this situation,” Sato tells him, looking unbothered by his irritation.

“Ms. Sato perhaps now isn’t the best time,” Dr. Scherr begins, but the woman ignores him.

“The office I represent is concerned why a young man, not even of legal age is living on his own in such a dangerous part of Gotham. Given Mr. Drake-Wayne’s public visibility, he should at least employ a security detail. The whole situationmsuggests a lack of judgment, either on his part or on that of the guardian responsible for his formative years.”

“And how do these _concerns_ interfere with plans to help my son’s recovery?” Bruce asks, tone sharp but still edging on polite.

“Oh, they won’t be interfering at all. But perhaps someone other than yourself or whoever you intend to pay off—I mean, _hire_—would take responsibility for them.”

Bruce’s expression doesn’t change but somehow radiates fury all the same. “Explain.”

“There has been serious consideration by the authorities concerning the revocation of his emancipation status based on the state of his health,” Sato informs them. “It’s clear he hasn’t been taking care of himself before his unfortunate injury. Red flags like that, and it isn’t beyond the realm of possibility, the state wanting to put him under its wardship. If the paperwork goes through, he’ll be remanded to our custody within the next day or so.”

“And what would be the point of that, exactly?” Dick asks coldly. “Tim’s turning eighteen in July. That’s less than half a year, and placement measures for a foster home—especially one equipped to handle some recovering from a TBI—often take a lot longer. You’d be putting undue stress on someone that’s just suffered a traumatic brain injury.”

“It’s because of that injury that I will expedite the process. And given the likelihood of him recovering full use of his faculties, he will most likely retain the status of a minor for longer than you might think. This time under the care of a more…_suitable_ legal guardian, though.”

The look she sends Bruce now is one of disdain.

Damian stands then, brows drawn together. “You realize who you’re talking to, right?”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Sato replies, undaunted. “And the Wayne name and money may stretch far, but they do not buy immunity to the law.”

The tension in the room is ratcheting higher, and Tim stares at the surrounding faces, looking for a clue of what is happening. It’s bad, he knows that much. Something occurs to him then—is she saying someone will take him away from his family?

From Jay?

He makes a noise of protest, his chest tightening in a way that makes breathing almost impossible. His throat seems like it’s closing up—the doctors removed the tube before they discharged him, but the tissue remains bruised and he winces at the pain. His stomach pulls into an uncomfortable knot as he does his best to vocalize.

“Tim?”

Bruce’s gaze has flown toward him, eyeing the monitor beside him, and then Tim. He takes a step forward, but Dr. Scherr and Dr. Thompkins are already there, hovering over him.

“Timothy, are you alright?”

“Is he seizing?”

“No, it’s—”

“—just try to breathe—”

“—check the steroid levels—”

His chest continues to seize like it’s trapped in a vice, and the sensation only heightens as everyone crowds closer to his bed. His stomach heaves, this time, and he wonders if he will throw up. How is he supposed to do that when his throat is so tight?

“You’re making it worse,” Jay snaps then, and shoulders past Bruce and the doctors to sit beside Tim. He reaches for his hand, squeezing it once—quick, harsh and grounding. “Hey, Timbers. Calm the fuck down. Everything’s good. We’re handling it.”

Their soulmarks twist and strive toward one another. They don’t join—Tim has learned his bond with Jay is not complete—but they continue to blossom across their skin in complementary patterns of color and warmth.

It’s a comfort. Tim gives a shuddering sigh.

Jay’s here. He’s safe. It’s okay.

When he tries to pull away, Tim musters whatever strength he can to tighten his grip on Jay’s fingers. He doesn’t expect it to register—even he can tell there’s no force behind the hold—but Jay pauses. He gives Tim a look he can’t interpret—annoyance? Resignation? Surprise?—and relents, leaving his hand within Tim’s for now.

Around the room, everyone else watches without speaking. Bruce, who Tim has never seen gaze upon Jay with much beyond disappointment and sadness, appears to be considering them both with a good deal of speculation.

He isn’t the only one.

“I…had not realized,” Sato says, tone careful. There’s a pinched look on her face. “His file makes no reference to a soulmate. Or at least not that they had found each other.”

“I imagine that changes your plans a bit,” Bruce says with a smile that is anything but kind. “If you have any intention of following through on your threats to remove Tim, you know that a soulmate’s care supersedes government custody. Unless you want to be complicit in a blatant human rights violation.”

“It does…add a different dimension to the matter.”

“Well, then that settles things, for today at least, Ms. Sato,” Thompkins speaks up, and motions for her to leave. “And I’ll be calling your office to speak to your supervisor. Delivering news like this in front of a recovering patient is so far from professional I don’t even know where to start.”

“This isn’t over,” Sato says, although she lets Thompkins lead her away.

“And Dr. Scherr, if you would kindly get the hell out of my son’s room,” Bruce goes on, giving the doctor a hard look. “I’m requesting the hospital assign someone else to his case given your clear breach of doctor-patient confidentiality.”

Scherr nods his head as if he expected this. “My only concern is for Timothy’s continued health and safety. My conscience in the matter is clear.”

“Thank you for saving his life, but the next time I see you, it will be with my lawyers present.”

Then he, too, leaves. Bruce closes the door behind the departing doctors with an air of finality.

“What the hell was that?” Jay demands.

“Most likely someone trying to make a name for themselves,” Bruce sighs, taking his cellphone out of his pocket and tapping something into it. “It wouldn’t be the first time, as you recall.”

They exchange a significant look.

“I’ll go check into what we need to do to get Tim discharged,” Dick says, determined. “Not sure I like the idea of him being here without one of us if that woman comes back.”

“I’m coming, too. Leslie and I need to discuss her definition of ‘_vetting’_.”

“I hardly think it was her fault, sir,” Alfred says. “Dr. Scherr indicated he was operating with the best of intentions. And Master Timothy’s medical record is…colorful.”

“I know. Which is why whoever she’s recommending help Tim with his therapy need to an up-to-date and accurate account for his injuries beforehand. I would like to avoid any more trouble caused by _good intentions_.”

They say more after that, but Tim’s head is swimming and his eyes getting heavy. He’s expounded far more attention and effort today than he can remember doing in a while, and it’s catching up. When he tries to squeeze Jay’s hand, he can’t even make his fingers move.

_Maybe…when I wake up…_

⁂

The next day, Tim wakes to the news that he is returning home.

Wherever that is.

The new doctor that has replaced Dr. Scherr, and the hard-eyed Sato woman from yesterday, stand outside his room and argue against it. Bruce steamrolls over them both. He rattles off a list of specialists he intends to hire to help Tim’s recovery and then makes a comment about updating the neurosciences building.

The new doctor goes quiet at that, but the Sato snarls that she won’t sign off on that.

Their argument moves away from where Tim can hear it, but he has an odd confidence that Bruce will get his way.

Tim is looking forward to being somewhere that isn’t a hospital room until the moment he realizes Jay doesn’t intend to come with him.

“Keep me updated, I guess,” he says to Dick, shifting in discomfort. There’s a glint in his eyes like he’s ready to bolt. It’s not helped by the manner in which Bruce looms from the corner.

“Of course. It’s your right, after all.”

“Right.” There’s a bitter twist to Jay’s mouth that makes Tim feel sick.

No.

Jay can’t leave. He has to come with, he has to be there to help, he can’t leave him with strangers. They might be his family, but he doesn’t _know_ them. There’s no foundation of a relationship there, nothing as intuitive as his soulmate.

Tim’s breathing becomes close again. He tries desperately to catch Jay’s gaze, tries to force his tongue and lips and throat to make a noise that’s recognizable.

The heart-monitor thankfully speaks for him, tracking his quickly increasing pulse. Everyone goes silent, noting Tim’s distress, and Bruce clears his throat, glancing cautiously at Jay.

“You are, of course, welcome to stay at the manor,” he tells Jay reasonably. “Alfred can make up your room for you.”

“Yeah, not happening. Either thing,” Jay retorts.

“You _are_ Tim’s soulmate,” Dick reminds him.

“How could I forget…”

“You being around will probably help him to get better faster.”

“If that’s the case, we can go to his place,” Jay argues. “I can keep an eye on him there, without you guys fussing and helicopter-parenting the whole time.”

“And _that’s _not going to happen,” Bruce interjects. “Beyond the fact someone shot him not a block away from his apartment, we have a better set-up at the manor. And with the amount of paparazzi camping outside of here and his place, how do you expect him to recover?”

“Well, it sure as hell ain’t with me at the manor.”

Tim manages a noise this time, a breathy whine of protest.

Jay groans and takes his habitual place beside Tim, though he doesn’t take his hand this time. He looks frustrated.

“Kid, I know you don’t remember anything right now, but I have reasons for not wanting to go there.”

“Reasons that have been null and void for a while now.”

“Shut up, Dick,” he snaps, shooting him a glare before returning his attention to Tim. “Besides, I have…work and stuff. That makes it hard to commute.”

Jay shifts, obviously uncomfortable beneath Tim’s beseeching gaze. He can see almost the exact moment he relents.

“Fine,” Jay sighs. “I’ll come to visit you, okay? How’s that sound? I mean, you’re gonna be sleeping most of the time anyway. So I’ll go do my thing while you’re asleep and then be there when you wake up. That sound good?”

It doesn’t sound great, to be honest, but Tim can tell it’s a concession and the best he’s getting.

He blinks once.

“Besides, we haven’t outfitted your apartment yet, Timmy,” Dick says brightly. “Jay’s probably going to want to see to that himself.”

The two men exchange looks Tim can’t interpret, and then Jay nods slowly.

“Sure,” he says, his expression curiously blank.

And that’s that.

The same day, the family load Tim into the back of a sleek black van—for security purposes, they say—and transported to a sprawling manor. Though the word ‘manor’ seems inadequate; it looks more like a castle than someone’s house. He’s relieved to see Jay looks as uneasy as he feels as he helps push his wheelchair to an elevator.

(This place has an _elevator_?!)

He’s brought to a room that they say belonged to him before, one filled with medical equipment and medications. His bed is almost identical to what he had in the hospital. It has remote control movability functions and an adjustable lifting bar overhead so that when he’s able to, he can move himself if needed. There are rails and bars fixed along the walls, for when he starts walking again.

He wonders if he’ll ever get there.

Beyond that, the room feels like a stranger’s, even as it gives him some clues as to who he was before. Photographs cover the walls, most of them candid shots and landscapes. There’s one beside his bed of three teenagers—one large and broad-shouldered and wearing a black shirt with Superman’s logo on it. Another boy is slim and a redhead with freckles. In the middle, a dark-haired boy with blue eyes, pale skin and a sharp smile.

He knows that’s him because most of his family has been showing him cellphone pictures of himself. (Except Jay. He shrugged in discomfort and mumbled about not owning a cellphone.) The face staring up at him means nothing to him, the same way it meant nothing when he saw those shared images.

Posters plaster what parts of the walls not covered by photographs, and there are shelves with colorful action figurines and what looks like circuits and computer chips.

“You’re a bit of a tech nerd,” Dick tells him as he’s getting settled. Jay enters the room like he’s expecting someone to jump out and attack him.

“A _bit_?” he asks, gazing around the room like he’s never been here before. It’s possible he hasn’t, given his tension with everyone else. “It’s like Revenge of the Nerds threw up in here.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“None of this makes sense,” Jay grumbles, bending over to squint at the books on one of the shelves.

Tim finds himself admiring the view quite before he knows what he’s doing. His cheeks warm when Jay stands up and glances at him, a sudden irrational fear that his soulmate can read his mind.

But Jay just sits heavily in the swiveling computer chair, a battered copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ in hand, and starts to read silently. He barely even glances Tim’s way.

He wonders if Jay is mad at him.

It becomes a new routine.

Tim wakes up during the day and has his needs seen to by whichever member of the family is around. It tends to be Alfred, who Tim has learned is the family butler, albeit an unconventional one.

In the hospital, the nurses saw to bathing and grooming Tim. He’s thankful he didn’t have to suffer the use of a bedpan due to his catheter, but it’s still a situation that embarrasses him. At the house—the _manor_—Alfred has direct responsibility for his care. He does it with such an unblushing efficiency that makes Tim wonder just what his regular duties are.

Under normal circumstances people hire a nurse for such an intensive recovery period—the Sato woman tried to cite that as a reason Tim couldn’t return to the manor. But it turns out, everyone in the family has certification for long-term care, except for Damian and Duke.

“I’m in the process,” the latter says with a shrug when Tim gives him a curious look.

That doesn’t seem…_normal_ to Tim, but it means he doesn’t have to learn anyone else’s name, which is a relief. And Alfred is all sorts of amazing.

He has the uncanny ability to interpret Tim’s expressions and silence, to the point where he can keep a conversation going as he performs his daily toilette. It’s almost as if they are speaking aloud, despite Tim’s responses being non-verbal and limited to blinking or wordless grunts. 

When Alfred isn’t there, Dick is, telling him stories about growing up in a circus and about being a cop in Blüdhaven. Tim knows that whoever he was before knew all of this, but it’s the first time he remembers it, and it all sounds amazing. If only Dick didn’t keep looking so sad whenever he thinks Tim isn’t looking.

Just as he did in the hospital, Bruce is always there in the mornings when Tim wakes, looking haggard and sometimes rather bruised for some reason, but always there. While he sips coffee—which smells so mouth-wateringly good to Tim he almost wants to cry because he can’t have any—Bruce fills in crossword puzzles and Sudoku games in the paper. When he notices Tim watching him one morning, he shuffles over with them and lets him watch.

When he leaves in the afternoon, Stephanie comes by but always leaves before Alfred comes in to give Tim his dinner. She laughs and jokes with him, shows him funny YouTube videos and paints his nails. It seems brain injuries don’t excuse someone from looking ‘fabulous’. He doesn’t know if he used to let her do this before, but for a while it’s the most fun he has during the day. She tells him they used to date, before she and Cassandra found each other, and that he’s still one of her best friends.

Damian enters Tim’s room only on rare occasions, preferring to pause and glare from the doorway, and then stalk off. He’s often followed around by a very large, ferocious looking dog and a tiny black and white cat. The latter decides after about a day or so that Tim is a suitably warm and captive heater and takes to curling up beside him. The glaring from Damian intensifies when he notices this, but he doesn’t remove the cat.

“Cats have a tendency to detect illness and infirmity,” he informs Tim, looking down his nose at him. “It’s only natural he has gravitated to you here.”

And then he leaves.

Which…Tim _thinks_ is him showing he cares?

The others shuffle in and out of his room at varying times of day, and sometimes even at night. Duke fiddles around with what Tim supposes is his Xbox and loads games for him to watch play. (Never any shooting games. According to Duke, Bruce banned those from the house even before Tim got shot). He’s sure he’s seen Cassandra sitting in the chair beside his bed one night when his radio clock informed him it was two in the morning. He’s so medicated around then, though, that it could be a hallucination.

Throughout all of this, Tim does spend a lot of his time sleeping, but always is awake when Jay arrives in the evening.

His soulmate sometimes says a few words to him, but more often he won’t. Inevitably he sits down with his book and reads. Every now and then he glances up at Tim like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how to get the words.

That might be something they have in common there, at least.

A physical therapist comes in three times a week to help Tim work on re-learning movement. Dick doesn’t like the man, but he explains that it’s because the social worker from the hospital raised a fuss. She wanted someone to work with Tim that wasn’t reliant on Wayne family money. Bruce is going along with it, trying to show he’s cooperative, but the situation isn’t to anyone’s liking.

They never leave Tim alone with the man. Someone from the family always sitting nearby to keep an eye out as the guy stretches and positions Tim’s body to ensure his muscles don’t atrophy.

(Apparently, his reflexes are still rather impressive.)

One evening early on, it’s Jay sitting in the corner watching, and the PT calls him over.

“You should learn how to do some of this with him,” he tells him. “Soulmates have an inherent level of trust. It helps with the process. And if you end up as his primary caregiver, it’s important to know how.”

Jay’s expression is unreadable, but he nods and comes over. He seems absorbed in listening to the therapist’s instructions on how to move his joints and ease the tightness from the muscles. His hand is large and warm against Tim’s even through his clothes.

It’s the safest Tim ever feels.

On days when Jay is there to help, Tim can’t help wanting to smile the whole time. However, whenever Jay notices, there’s something dark and guilty in his gaze that makes Tim stop himself.

Maybe it hurts Jay to have Tim smile at him when he knows he doesn’t remember him. He makes a mental note to try not to do that anymore. He doesn’t want to hurt Jay.

A week after Tim returns home, Dr. Thompkins arrives to check up on him. She brings with her a colleague of hers, Dr. Thrussell, who is a certified brain injury specialist and music therapist.

“_Music_ therapy?” Jay scoffs. “The kid’s tone-deaf.” Tim shoots him an incredulous stare Bruce and Dick echoes. “Cass showed me the videos. Whoever let him do karaoke should be in Arkham.”

Dick sniggers at that, and Tim’s brows draw into an annoyed glare, even if he knows it’s teasing.

“The injury damaged the language pathways of Tim’s brain, if they didn’t ruin them altogether,” Dr. Thompkins explains. “What do you do when you’re driving somewhere and can’t get there the usual way?”

“Take a detour.”

“Right,” Dr. Thrussell says. “This is what we call neuroplasticity—the brain’s ability to reroute neural pathways. It’s how you can relearn to speak, Timothy. It goes without saying this won’t be easy, but it’s possible. Sort of like an adult learning to play piano after the age of 65.”

“The brain is like a series of roads on a map,” Thompkins continues. “The ones you use most often are the easiest to travel. Like highways. But that doesn’t mean the backroads stop existing just because they fall into disrepair.”

“So, you’re saying he has to backroad it until those paths become the Interstate,” Jay suggests.

“Exactly.”

And that…makes sense.

Tim still has the words there in his head. His thoughts have been remarkably coherent, barring the first few days when he couldn’t quite get them to stick together. He’s aware of everything going on around him, it’s just expressing that is the problem.

And so start the daily, intensive one-hour sessions re-learning to speak. At first, Tim had wanted to focus on that all day, but he didn’t account for how mentally draining it would be. Each session is exhausting and leaves him frustrated because it doesn’t seem to be making any difference. His mouth still won’t form properly around words.

After three weeks, he’s still only able to communicate by thumbs up or down.

“I understand this is frustrating, Timothy, but remember,” Dr. Thrussell tells him one day when his anger causes him to hyperventilate almost to the point of passing out. “Your inability to speak is no reflection of your intelligence. Even if you never learn to speak, from what I’ve heard about you, you’re an ingenious young man. You’ll figure it out.”

The words are surprisingly calming, and so he renews his efforts.

⁂

It’s Dick’s 26th birthday, which Tim only knows because he awoke to a loud ruckus this morning.

(“Damian, I don’t care what Jon told you, birthday beats do _not_ mean you get a free opportunity to concuss me.”

“Twenty-six opportunities, Richard. Now stay still.)

Later that day, Dick wheels Tim into the family room to sit with everyone while Alfred puts the finishing touches on the celebratory meal. Most of the time he hates this, but Dick’s wife, Barbara, is there in her own wheelchair. It helps him feel less scrutinized with her there.

She smiles at him. “You’re looking better every time I see you, Tim.”

“Then you need to get your prescription checked,” Damian pipes up from the corner.

Without even looking, Barbara points a finger at him and says, “I will set all your devices to play Piero Umiliani songs on repeat. The _Muppets_ version.”

Damian’s expression becomes something akin to horror. Tim works his mouth into an approximation of a smirk.

He’s unsure why Damian hates him, but he suspects a lot of it is the boy being spoiled. Dick told him that Damian is Bruce’s only biological child, and it’s given him a bit of a complex.

“We’re working on it, though,” he promised him. “You guys love each other. Uh. Deep, _deep_ down.”

Tim’s not buying it, but he has a limited amount of energy every day. He doesn’t intend to waste it on the ‘demon brat’ as Jay calls him.

(Though that’s said in a more affectionate than insulting manner.)

Speaking of Jay…

Tim’s eyes keep darting to the clock over the mantle, counting down the minutes until his soulmate shows up.

Jay comes over between six o’clock and ten o’clock, which seems to be the only time he doesn’t work. Tim wonders what kind of job he works both night and day—perhaps he has more than the one? He’s not sure why he has to work. He’s heard Bruce ask him to stay here again and again, that he could cover everything for him, but Jay always refuses.

Perhaps because Bruce always sounds like he’s in pain when he makes the request.

Tim wonders if that’s the reason for the tension between them. Because it’s clear the Waynes have money. Perhaps Jay doesn’t, and that causes issues?

Is _that_ why he’s distant with Tim? Does he resent the fact his soulmate comes from money? Or…when he had all his memories, did Tim perhaps make a big deal about their economic differences?

It’s another possibility in an ever-growing list of possibilities for why Tim’s relationship with his soulmate isn’t typical.

By now, Dick has queued up his favorite show while they wait for dinner. Tim watches it with him sometimes when it’s the older man’s shift to take care of him. It’s called _Arranged_, and Dick says it’s sort of like the _Tudors_; Tim doesn’t think he’s seen either show even before he lost his memory.

Damian and Duke both complain about the choice.

“It’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want,” Dick retorts while Stephanie and Cassandra scoot closer to the television with matching grins.

“I would rather help Pennyworth,” Damian announces.

“Good luck with that,” Barbara says. “You know how he is about the kitchen.”

“You? Help?” Duke asks, looking at the boy with suspicion. “Were you replaced with a clone or something?”

Damian scowls at him. “You’d be able to tell. None of my clones resemble me.”

He stalks away, leaving a confused Duke. “I…don’t know how to respond to that.”

“Well, you know, Damian’s got a weird sense of humor,” Dick gives a nervous laugh, eyes flicking to Tim and back.

“No kidding…”

“So this is where you losers holed up.” Everyone looks over as Jay strides into the room, habitual frown in place and hands in his pockets. “What the hell are you watching?”

Tim beams at him, though he hasn’t looked at him yet; he’s staring at the television screen with a disgusted face.

“_Arranged_,” Dick tells him.

“You like that crap?”

“Tim likes it.”

“Tim’s basically a hostage, he has no choice,” Jay shoots back. His eyes flick over him in appraisal, and perhaps Tim imagines it, but it seems like they soften a bit. “How you doing, Timbers?

Tim gives him a thumbs up, wishing it was enough to convey how he’s feeling and how glad he is that Jay’s here now.

“Do you need a rescue? Stay sitting for ‘yes’, jump around the room for ‘no’.”

Tim snorts, but it’s lost in Dick’s whining. “_Jay_, come on, this is family bonding time. Not ‘run off to some shadowy corner with Timmy and just read a book in silence time’. Tim needs _interaction_.”

It occurs to Tim that he dislikes being called ‘Timmy’.

“Watching TV isn’t interaction.”

“It is the way we do it,” Steph pipes up without looking at him. “I mean, the amount of yelling that goes on when the writers mess up…”

Jay rolls his eyes. “This show is so trashy though.”

“Have you ever? Sat down to watch?” Cass challenges.

“As if I have time for that.”

“Just shut up and watch, it’s starting,” Dick orders.

And by some miracle, Jay gives a long-suffering sigh and drops into the couch seat right beside Tim’s wheelchair. He scowls at the screen as if it’s done something personal to offend him.

As usual, Tim senses Jay’s extreme discomfort being in the manor. It fills him with both guilt and immense gratitude that he still comes here for his sake..

They all settle in and watch as Cordelia de Vere, a young socialite in the 18th century falls in love with her stable boy, Gerald Seymour. Who, it turns out, is also her soulmate.

“Obviously,” Jay snarks.

Gerald asks Cordelia to marry him and she says yes. Naturally, her parents refuse to approve the match. They believe the stable boy to be far beneath their daughter in terms of status and express concern he won’t be able to provide for her in proper fashion. Also, think of what people will say?

“Even more obvious.”

“Shut up, Little Wing!”

Tim tilts his head to one side in curiosity at Dick’s words. He’s clearly talking to Jay. A new nickname? No, Jay knows who he’s talking to. An old one. Jay has problems with Bruce but apparently is close enough to his children to have earned a nickname.

_Just how long has everyone known each other?_

Cordelia’s parents point out to their heartbroken daughter that there have been many successful matches between people who aren’t soulmates. When she still refuses to agree to their wishes, they reveal they’ve dismissed Gerald and sent him away.

In the next episode, they introduce the defiant Cordelia to the handsome (and rich) Prince Bertram of Montmorency, who is just as resentful of the potential match as Cordelia. Not because they aren’t soulmates, but because it means he has to stop seeing his own servant paramour, the groomsman Maurice.

By now Jay is now arguing with Dick about who the better match is (Steph and Dick come down on the side of Gerald, Jay argues for Bertram; Cass and Duke seem to be thumb-wrestling). No one except Tim takes notice of Alfred in the doorway.

“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes,” he announces, “if you might wrest yourselves from the trials and tribulations of the Georgian upper class? Wash up if you haven’t already.”

There are several groans and protests, but everyone does as asked. Jay wheels Tim toward the elevator, and when the door closes, he says, “I bet we can make a run for it from here.”

He meets Tim’s gaze in the door mirror like he’s proposing something in all seriousness. Tim considers him for a moment. Under normal circumstance, he would give anything to go anywhere with Jay, but it _is_ Dick’s birthday. It would upset him.

And in the past weeks, Tim has learned that upset Dick is a pain in the ass.

Careful, Tim sticks his hand out—thumbs down.

“_Verso pollice_,” Jay sighs. “Figured you were gonna say that…”

The doors spring open and they head for the kitchen.

Bruce is there this evening, which is rare.

Tim can count on two hands the number of times he’s seen Bruce at mealtime since Tim arrived at the manor. Alfred told him it’s because the life of a billionaire is busier than most people imagine, but Tim suspects it has more to do with Jay being around.

He wishes he knew what they were fighting about.

Dinner seems to cheer Jay up, though; Tim thinks that’s down to Alfred’s food.

He can’t even argue with that, because the man makes everything taste good. And Tim can taste or smell much right now (Dr. Thompkins says that may or may not return, it’s too soon to tell). But anything is better than the formula he was getting through the nasal tube for the first month of his recovery.

There’s laughing and joking, and rapid conversation Tim doesn’t follow. Then Alfred leaves for a moment and returns with a gooey looking chocolate cake.

Steph starts a horrible rendition of _Happy Birthday_, and Barbara joins in the singing. A disapproving frown from Alfred has the guys joining in soon after.

Tim wants to roll his eyes because it’s such an irritating little tune. Something that gets stuck in your head too easily and takes forever to get out again. Before he’s even aware of it, he’s caught up humming along with it.

He can’t get the words, but the pitch and intonation are manageable.

It’s several seconds before he realizes the singing has stopped around him, and everyone is staring.

Dick looks like he’s about to cry. He gets up, arms held wide like he wants to hug Tim, only for Jay to intercept him. “No, none of that until he can defend himself.”

“Aw, is that jealousy, Little Wing?”

“The fuck would I get jealous of?”

“Jay,” Bruce says in a warning tone.

Jay rolls his eyes, but doesn’t apologize.

“Oh, well, fine,” Dick huffs. “Though…since you _are_ soulmates, you _do_ have that bond.” He makes a show of musing, and then grins. “I guess you’ll just have to be his proxy.”

“His—what?! No! Dick, if you touch me, I will kick your ass!”

“Language!” Alfred reminds, not glancing up from cutting the cake.

“Sorry, Alf—no, Dick, I swear to—ugh!”

Dick has himself wrapped around Jay’s shoulders with the tenacity of an octopus, and despite being much more muscular, Jay is having trouble dislodging him. The hangdog expression on his face is hilarious. Steph snaps a photo with her phone, while Cass giggles. Dick and Damian smirk at Jay, no doubt happy they’re not the one in Dick’s clutches.

A soft laugh breaks through the din, and once again everyone is staring at Tim.

It takes a moment to realize: it’s the first time he’s laughed since he woke up in the hospital.

⁂⁂⁂

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr (violetsmoak) for news regarding updates--or just to drop me a line :)


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note(s):** And now for a bit of Jason's perspective, before we return to chronological continuity...

The minute Tim reveals to the Family that Jason is his soulmate—the minute Jason’s sudden burst of conscience has him _confirming _it—he knows he’s done. He’s lost all ability to pretend anything to the contrary, even when Tim gets his memories back, everyone will always know.

And he will always have to face the _looks_ like the ones they’re giving him now.

As soon as there are no more civilians lurking outside the door, it’s as if a den of wolves has rounded on him.

“What the hell?” Steph demands. “He said you were dead!”

_Ouch. Although…I guess he wasn’t lying._

“Congratulations, I guess,” Duke offers, not looking sure he’s expressing the correct sentiment. Then again, he often looks at a loss at figuring out the dynamics of the Family he’s suddenly found himself a part of.

Cass seems unsurprised about the whole thing which makes a certain amount of sense; she might not have known exactly what was going on between him and Tim, but she noticed something.

Bruce remains blank-faced.

Jason hates that he can’t read him or figure out what he thinks of all this. Is he angry? Disappointed? Plotting to lock Jason up again?

“If we might all calm down,” Alfred speaks up, ever the voice of reason, “this is a trying time for all of us. No doubt more so for Master Jason and Master Timothy.”

Though he seemed shocked at first, it seems he now simply accepts the fact, in the same way he simply accepts and adapts to every new Wayne Crisis.

“How long have you known?” Bruce asks, question void of inflection.

Jason meets his eyes in defiance. “A while.”

“And Tim?”

“Longer than me.”

“Why didn’t either of you tell us?” Dick cries, hurt lacing every syllable.

But Bruce steamrolls over that, too, asking the real questions. “Were you aware of this at the Tower?”

Jason clenches his fists and refuses to answer.

“The Tower?” Steph echoes. “Wait. You mean when he beat Tim within an inch of his life?” She levels a vicious glare at him, twin spots of angry red on her face as she jumps to her feet. “You tried to kill him! Your _soulmate_!”

“In case you don’t remember, I wasn’t firin’ on all cylinders back then,” Jason shoots back.

“That’s a shitty excuse and you know it!”

“And it wasn’t exactly the last time,” Dick adds, then winces like he didn’t mean to add accidental evidence against Jason in this impromptu Trial by Bat.

“Yeah, well, whatever,” Jason snaps. “It’s not like I asked for any of this.” He pushes away from the wall that’s been holding him up since all this began. “Thanks for this little reunion, but I’m out of here. You all have your hands full with coma boy now.”

“You can’t just go!” Dick protests. “If he wakes up and you’re not here, how do you think he’ll react? You’re the only one he recognizes!”

“He doesn’t recognize me, he recognizes the ball and chain on my arm,” Jason retorts, brandishing his left wrist.

Far from emphasizing his point, everyone’s eyes rivet toward the mark, which hasn’t settled back on his wrist yet. It’s as if it acts as a reminder; everyone goes quiet and considering in their own way.

He hates that, that they think they may pass judgment on him, on this—on the fact fate fucked him and Tim over.

“Screw this,” he says and stalks from the room. He tries to ignore what looks like a flash of relief on Bruce’s face.

He doesn’t bother with the elevator, needs the physicality of stomping down sixteen flights of stairs to cool his anger. It doesn’t help; he gets outside the hospital and ends up just kind of standing there near the ambulance loading bay.

Not sure what he’s supposed to do now, he digs out his cigarettes and lights one, starts puffing away in agitation. He should leave, get out of here to do something useful. Screw playing nice for anyone’s sake—it would serve them all right if he _did_ decide to put Gotham in his rear-view.

But he has to get back on task. Whoever this person is that’s decided to be his new archenemy, he’s bad for more than just Jason’s business. That’s why he has to stick around.

Not because of Tim’s recovery.

He ignores the voice in his head (which sounds annoyingly like Roy) that tells him denial isn’t a talent no matter how much effort he puts into it.

Jason has started his second cigarette when he hears a familiar pattern of footsteps approaching.

“Whatever you’re gonna say, I don’t want to hear it, even from you,” he warns.

“I am not here to say anything in particular to you,” Alfred replies serenely. “I would, however, ask if I could trouble you for a cigarette.”

Jason almost jolts at that and stares at the older man in astonishment. “What?”

“Curious. Nowhere in your files was it mentioned you had suffered recent auditory damages,” Alfred remarks mildly. When Jason still can’t summon a response, he adds, “It has been a rather trying two weeks, Master Jason and decently brewed cuppas are scarce in this place. Rather suspect, given how much funding we provide them with.”

As if in a trance, Jason slides a cigarette out of the pack and hands it to Alfred. The man takes it gingerly, the movement awkward but practiced, like it’s something he hasn’t done in a while. He bends to hold it to the flame that Jason automatically flicks to life and gives a few experimental inhalations. 

For a while, they stand in silence. Jason spends a good deal of that sneaking glances at the butler as he handles his cigarette almost artfully between two fingers.

He can’t take it anymore. “Since when do you smoke?”

“You are not the only one in this family who had tumultuous teenaged years. I spent some time before I went into service frequenting pubs that made your American CBGB look like a primary school.” 

Jason blinks. “Huh. And I’m suddenly re-evaluatin’ who’s the most secretive member of this gig.”

“Quite.”

There is another long spell of silence. At last, that gets to Jason too.

(And he knows Alfred’s doing it on purpose, damn it!)

“Look, Alf, it’s not that I…” he begins, then stops because he’s not sure how he wants to tackle this. “Soulmates or not, I’m the worst person to be around the kid right now. And I’ve got…stuff going on.”

_And I might be the reason he got shot, to begin with; I don’t know if I can be around him knowing that._

“Understandable, Master Jason. One can only do what is within one’s power,” Alfred hums. “This is a difficult situation, and you need to take the time to process, however you do so. This family—Master Timothy himself—has always weathered emergencies just as dire as this. I have every confidence and faith they will again. At least this time, no one has died.”

_And isn’t that a low fucking bar? ‘Whelp, you still have all your limbs and only slight mental trauma, but you’re alive, so good for you!’. This fucking family…_

“Have you ever had occasion to visit Japan in your travels?”

The segue makes Jason turn his whole body to face the man again. “Uh. Once or twice?”

“Was it all for business or did you visit any cultural sites? I remember as a child you had a fascination with Matsumoto Castle.”

“Uh. Yeah. Yeah, I got to go there, once. It was awesome.”

_No need to tell him it was to meet with the head of the local Yakuza for Talia. Why does he want to know that, anyway?_

Alfred hums again.

“The Japanese have a philosophy I have always found fascinating,” he says, using his finger to tap away a bit of ash. “They treat breakage and repair as an integral part of history and development, rather than something to hide or gloss over. They call it _kintsugi, _if I’m not mistaken.”

Jason frowns, the term tugging a memory. A late night in bed flicking through _National Geographic. _“Isn’t that when they fill the cracks in clay pots with gold or something?”

“There is a relation between the two,” Alfred allows, amused, and then becomes thoughtful once again. “The past may be imperfect, but it is not something to repress. It is there whether we want it to be or not. And it is how one accepts and changes in relation to that which shows one’s measure.” He takes another drag of the cigarette and frowns, shooting Jason a judgemental look. “I forgot how bloody awful these things are.”

And Jason can’t help snorting with laughter as Alfred flicks the butt away.

“Anyhow. I hoped to catch you before you left and say I wish to see you again soon. Sooner than a few months this time, though I understand you have a life of your own.” And _there’s_ the Alfred guilt; Jason knew it was coming. “I _did, _however, hear a rumor that the Red Hood died in an explosion the other night. With him off the streets now, perhaps it will be more convenient to come around.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “I’m not fallin’ for it.”

“Falling for what?” Alfred replies, innocent. He turns. “We will see to Master Timothy, have no fear about that. I will send you updates as to his condition. It may take a while, but I remain confident he will improve. Good day, Master Jason.”

And then he heads back into the hospital.

Jason glares at his back, telling himself he will _not _let that sway him. He’s too old to let well-meaning manipulations sway him. And yet…

Tim _had_ seemed so…frail. Vulnerable. Terrified. And that had gone away when Jason was there.

The expression is in such contrast to the other he has in his head. The blank resignation and acceptance when Jason all but told him he wished he didn’t exist.

_Like he was fucking _expecting_ it._

He smokes two more cigarettes before swearing and turning back to the hospital. This time he takes the elevator.

When he re-enters Tim’s room, everyone looks up in surprise at his return. Except Alfred, because the man is a sneaky fucker, and Jason wonders if Tim doesn’t have more in common with him than with Bruce. He refuses to meet anyone’s gaze, though, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets.

“I might be a jerk, but I don’t want to make the kid hemorrhage from the stress of me not bein’ here,” he grumbles. “So I’ll stick around until he’s, I dunno, less breakable or something.”

He can almost _hear_ Dick’s smile. “Thanks, Little Wing. Knew we could count on you.”

“Bullshit you did.”

“Master Jason.”

He sighs and sidles into an empty chair, one closest to the door, farthest from Bruce, and with a good vantage point of Tim. 

_This is gonna suck._

“So,” Dick leans against the wall next to Jason, movement slow and deliberate. There’s a slight, manic edge to his voice. “Soulmates, huh?”

“I swear to god, Grayson, if you keep bringin’ it up, I’m out of here.”

“Spoilsport.”

But mercifully, he leaves it alone. For today.

⁂

To say that Jason’s world has completely uprooted itself within the course of weeks would be an understatement.

At first, he expected everyone to leave him alone—his presence tolerated only because of the technicality of him being Tim’s soulmate. But the day after Bruce’s birthday and the visit from Gillian Sato, Dick pulls him to one side while he’s getting coffee and hands him a folder. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Jason flips it open and blinks at the contents. Pages and pages of what looks like a whole new identity. “‘Todd Jacob Kane’—what the hell is this?”

“Well, we had to explain how you’re connected to the Family if Tim or anyone asks. So now you’re a distant cousin on Bruce’s mom’s side of the family. Explains the hair, too.”

He reaches out to tug at said hair, but Jason ducks and snarls at him, “Why the fuck do you have to explain anything?”

“That social worker will come back. And now she and all the doctors know you’re Tim’s soulmate, so you can’t be dead or unaccounted for. At some point, other people will ask, too.”

“You’re talkin’ like I’m gonna be around once his head’s back on straight.”

“That could take a while, Jay,” Dick says with uncharacteristic solemnity “Maybe even longer if the damage is worse than we think. We’re just trying to prepare for every eventuality. Besides—don’t you _want_ to be alive again? In the legal sense, I mean.”

“Not if it means I gotta spend more time with you losers, or like, pay taxes or something.” He leafs through the documents, eyebrows raising. “Shit. Barbie went all out, didn’t she?”

GED, vaccinations records, passport, social security number, military records (ex-army medic, two tours of duty in Manbij—_hell, she was paying attention, wasn’t she?)_ and—

“What the hell is _this_? Formal PTSD diagnoses?!”

“Can you think of a convincing argument where those are wrong?”

Jason grumbles in response, because, no, he can’t.

“Leslie may have had some input, based on everything she knows about you and us.”

“And what about this, huh? Why do I have a juvy record?”

“You can’t be too clean or anyone looking into you would know there’s something up. Besides, you already _had_ a juvy record, it’s not like it’s a change. And this segues well into your military career.”

“Where I racked up a dishonorable discharge, looks like.”

“Did you look at the reason for it?”

Jason glances through the document, and a bit of the tension clears. “Okay. Yeah, that would track.”

“This way you’ve got both a criminal record and a service record. If you’re intending to keep straddling the line of good guy and bad guy, you’ve got a background to build on for either.” 

Jason considers this as he looks back down to the files, and whistles. “Damn, Barbie.”

“My wife’s a genius.”

“Well, one of you has to be.”

“You’re just jealous.”

_That you somehow ended up soulmates with two of the most gorgeous and capable women on the planet? Who wouldn’t be? I mean, if I gave a shit about soulmates._

The thought rubs him wrong for some reason, and he thinks back on Tim. The kid isn’t really the worst option in the world. He can sort of see if he were a different person—the kind that’s swept up in the soulmate nonsense—how the younger man could be appealing. His sarcasm alone might have made them friends in another life.

Dick must notice something in his expression because his own softens, and he says, “Tim will be okay, you know.”

“I’m not worried.”

“You sure? Because you looked kind of—”

“I’m fine. It’s not something I’m losing sleep over.” He tries to deflect. “And you’re takin’ this all suspiciously well, considering you were freakin’ out about it yesterday.”

“Well, I had time to process. And I think it makes sense.”

“…Fuckin’ _excuse_ me?”

“Maybe not on the surface,” Dick hurries to add, “But the thing is, you and Tim, you’re both…” He hesitates, looking for the word.

“Replacements?”

“Damaged.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “What.”

“Well, you are. For different reasons. But maybe your damages complement each other or something?”

“That is the stupidest thing you have ever said to me,” Jason informs him. “And you once asked me why they put the paper on the onions so tight.”

He was thirteen, and it was the first and last time he ever attempted to cook anything within the same vicinity as Dick Grayson.

⁂

Tim is in and out of consciousness, and barely even _Tim_ for the first month or so. It doesn’t stop him from somehow using his latent powers of manipulation to get Jason to agree to stick around even longer—or worse, visit the manor.

(And yes, he’s aware that at the moment Tim is, perhaps for the first time in his life, not even capable of manipulation. But how else is he supposed to explain the way he folds whenever the kid turns that sad, panicked gaze on him?)

It’s a pain for more reasons than his own discomfort, because the thing is, he wasn’t actually lying to Tim when he said he had work.

Just because Penguin’s a slimy bastard doesn’t mean he isn’t smart. Jason’s taken his words to heart in the time that he’s been lying low. He scoped out the Hungry Ghost, the club that fronts a modern-day bordello and chosen it as his information-gathering hub. It took a bit of reconnaissance and conveniently arranging for the current bouncer-slash-barback to skip town, and he had a gig lined up.

He’d put on a convincing show of hesitating at the entrance. He’d awkwardly shuffled a bit and mentioned to the owner, Madam Salome, that he heard they hired without caring too much about past records.

She’s a hard-mouthed woman, whipcord thin and angular, and with a cold look he’s seen before on a lot of the girls walking the streets. She grills him about why he was in juvy (carjacking—not a lie) and why he got discharged from the army (killed a man for raping a young girl; also not technically a lie) and whether he has any kind of issue with sex work (“No ma’am, world’s oldest trade. Should be regulated.” Which is also something he believes).

Then she gives him a hard look like she can tell he’s lying and hires him anyway.

So now he’s ready for his long-con of surveillance, which means he can’t be spending every free moment with Tim.

Right?

Yet, against his inclination and will, he finds himself at the manor every evening, helping with physiotherapy or sitting by Tim’s bed with his nose buried in a book.

(Or trying to have his nose buried in a book, it’s sort of hard when he’s being watched by Tim’s unwavering gaze. Strange how he’s good at that even with one eye still covered with a bandage.)

He’s uncomfortable with how attached the kid has gotten to him in such a short time, all because of his soulmark; it feels false since Tim currently has no memories of everything Jason has done to him.

A niggling voice in his head that sounds like Kori this time reminds him that Tim seemed open to the idea before.

(He shrugs that off.)

It’s a while before he gets over the guilty pit in his stomach whenever he walks into a room and Tim’s face lights up to see him. The kid might not be talking yet, but he’s ridiculously expressive. Jason wonders how he survived in the boardroom with such an open face, before he remembers that before, Tim knew how to hide more.

He always keeps space between the two, a careful distance unless he needs to help Tim calm down or with physio exercises; the only time he gets close to Tim of his own volition is when the kid is asleep. Even then it’s just to study him and try to figure out _why the hell _the universe thought they’d be a good match.

Sometimes he’s downright resentful of him.

Inwardly, he rails that it’s Tim’s fault they’re in this situation. If he hadn’t been there that night, if he’d not had some stupid meltdown on television, he wouldn’t have been in Crime Alley. He wouldn’t have been anywhere near Jason and wouldn’t be brain damaged now.

(_You don’t know that, _Kori’s voice in his head reminds him. _He throws himself off buildings and into fights every night. He could easily have gotten hurt some other way._)

This makes him feel like an ass for thinking and he’ll immediately seek out Dick or Damian because clearly, he has feelings that need to be exorcised. Right now he can’t get out on the streets to do it, so the Cave will have to suffice.

He prefers Damian, to be honest. The kid is doing his damnedest to act as if nothing has changed, which Jason needs right now.

“I don’t know what everyone is so worried about,” the brat dismisses one day as Dick watches him and Jason spar. Jason wishes he could say he’s taking it easy on the kid, but they’re pretty evenly matched. “Drake has survived his ordeal and will recover. He always does.”

“But he might not this time.”

“Pennyworth is seeing to his needs, there’s no need for us to continue deviating from our usual routines.”

“You’re assuming he _will _get all his memories back,” Dick cautions, crossing his arms and frowning as Jason ducks the swing of a _bokken_. Dick won’t let either of them use real swords against each other since they might fall back on League habits. “He might not, Little D. _Then _what will you do?”

Jason grits his teeth, sensing that the question is directed to him, too. If he’s being honest with himself, it’s a sentiment he’s been thinking over more and more the longer Tim remains functionally amnesiac.

“I wouldn’t care one way or the other,” Damian insists, parrying Jason’s next attack. “The longer he takes simply makes it easier for me to take my rightful place as Father’s true heir.”

“That’s bull. If he never goes back to the way he was before, that means everything that’s made you jealous of him goes away too. You lose your rival—the one person you’ve been measuring yourself against since you showed up.”

Damian grunts, either in effort or derision, Jason can’t tell, since he unleashes a flurry of attacks that forces him to go back on the defensive.

“Take away the parts of Tim you pretend to hate, and all you have left is a brother who needs you.”

“Tt.” Damian jumps back from Jason one last time and throws down his weapon. “I yield. I refuse to listen to this nonsense any longer.”

“Hey! No quittin’!” Jason yells at his back as he disappears, and glares over at Dick. “Thanks a lot, asshole. I was just startin’ to work up a sweat before you started with your _Dr. Phil _crap.”

“I’m only trying to get him to understand the seriousness of all this,” Dick tells him. “He’s seen all of us get injured and come back from things before. Hell, _he’s_ died and come back. I worry he’s starting to believe it’s a given when it’s…really not.”

“Kid grew up in the League of Assassins,” Jason reminds him. “Trust me, he understands the futility of things.”

“And do you?”

Jason narrows his eyes. “What now?”

“You’ve also been acting like this is all temporary. Like Tim’s just going to bounce back,” Dick says, crossing his arms tight against his chest like he’s trying to comfort himself. “But there’s a real chance he doesn’t. I mean, come on, Jason, look at what happened to you. You’ve had brain damage before. It took a dip in a Lazarus Pit to fix that.”

“It’s different,” Jason snaps. “I had my head caved in in about nine different places. Doc Thompkins already said the kid’s injury was clean. He’ll be back to chuggin’ energy drinks and playin’ with his gadgets in no time and I can get back to my life.”

“You mean the life that _literally _burnt down around you?”

Jason snarls and throws up his hands. “Know what? Bat brat had the right idea. I’m not listenin’ to you ramble anymore.”

“It’s okay to worry about him, you know!” Dick yells at his back as Jason climbs the stairs back to the manor proper.

_And _that_ is why I prefer when it’s only Damian. Dick always takes advantage and tries to go for the heart-to-heart. Though it could be worse. It could be B._

For the most part, Bruce has been keeping out of Jason’s way when he’s at the manor, which he is simultaneously relieved at and frustrated by. Relieved because he doesn’t want to have _that_ conversation, the one where Bruce judges him and finds him unworthy of being Tim’s soulmate.

(Jason doesn’t want to be his soulmate, but Bruce finding him unworthy is one of those anxieties leftover from his childhood.)

Frustrated, because one of the few good things about him and Bruce has always been that they can be bluntly honest with one another. It’s a no holds barred, going-for-the-throat kind of honesty, that cuts through the shit and straight to the core.

(Except perhaps the months leading up to Jason’s death, and his return to Gotham when he wanted to be a little dramatic.)

He wishes they could just fight about it and get it over with.

⁂

It is several weeks before Tim can sit up on his own; a month spent in bed, needing help to get showered and redressed. Jason thankfully doesn’t have to do any of that stuff. Alfred and Dick appear to be falling over themselves to do that, though the long-suffering expression on Tim’s face whenever he needs help amuses Jason.

At least that’s the same; Tim never liked having to ask for or get help. Jason knew that even without being around him often.

From the scowls he tries to hide from everyone, he dislikes the various therapies he has to endure, too.

Jason does the bare minimum of what the family wants. He stays with Tim, so he doesn’t freak out, holds his hand when he needs to, puts up with Bruce somehow looming from an entirely different wing of the manor, and leaves with lots of leftovers from Alfred.

But that’s it.

Jason has no intention of getting attached or encouraging the universe’s practical joke; as soon as Tim remembers (and he will fucking remember, Dick, so stop jinxing it) he’s gone.

He doesn’t have rambling conversations with Tim the way Steph does; she isn’t glaring at Jason as much anymore, but she pretends like he’s a statue or wallpaper on the rare occasion they pass in the hallways.

(He’s sure at some point that will end since they both have tempers and are raring for a fight.)

Cass just looks between the two of them like she finds them amusing or something, which a kind of insulting.

It’s lucky they see little of each other that first month. Steph shows up during the day after her classes or whatever it is she does when she’s not in costume and leaves for patrol before Jason arrives. Whenever Jason gets there and learns that she hasn’t left yet, he ducks into the kitchen to sit with Alfred for a while.

The old butler is the only one who appreciates how uncomfortable—how _angry_—the whole soulmate issue is making Jason and doesn’t make him feel guilty about it. He also appears to sense how restless Jason has been since benching himself.

Undercover work has never been his favorite thing, and with this job, he surprisingly has more nights off than on. It’s disquieting, leaving him with too much time on his hands to ruminate about his shadow rival or dwell on the situation with Tim.

“Why not assume a different mantle whenever the need arises to go out?” Alfred suggests one afternoon as he kneads the dough for his homemade egg pasta. “I don’t pretend to approve of the nighttime doings of anyone in this family, but a lifetime habit is difficult to break even in a few weeks.”

“Don’t you think I considered that? But it’d kind of be a give away if a new mask shows up on the streets so soon after Red Hood bites it,” Jason replies. He holds out the bag of flour when Alfred gestures for it.

“Are you telling me that in the vast collection of gear in the _basement_, you cannot find something that is storeyed and recognizable?”

“Not unless Bruce still has the Wingman suit,” Jason snorts.

Alfred says nothing, merely raising his eyebrow as he continues to add a few fingerfuls of flour to the dough.

“Are you kiddin’? I thought he tossed that and the Redwing out after Damian…?”

Alfred’s hands still for a moment, his eyes closing as he no doubt remembers that horrible time. Then, with small effort, he shakes it off and replies, “I fear Master Bruce was not in the mindset to do much of anything constructive during that time. The suits went into storage.”

“Yeah, well, I doubt B wants me wearin’ anything of his right now. In case you haven’t noticed the waves of disapproval driftin’ up through the floor, I’m not his favorite person right now. He won’t want me touchin’ his suit.”

“_Your_ suit, Master Jason. It was always meant to be yours when you were ready for it. Prior to the…_incident_…with Master Damian, it was to be an olive branch. A means of returning to the fold should you ever decide the need for Red Hood had passed.”

Jason’s chest tightens for a moment and he’s unsure what to say to that at first. He’d known when Bruce came to him that time that it was an olive branch, a second chance—but he’d assumed it was a temporary thing. An ace in the hole against Talia and Leviathan.

_And of course, the bastard would never just come out and _say_ that._

Jason’s not emotionally equipped to unpack yet another one of Bruce’s backhanded attempts at parenting. Instead, he focusses on Alfred’s last words.

“This is Gotham, Alf. There will never _not_ be a need for Red Hood, I don’t care what Bruce thinks.”

“Perhaps. But then, I’m of the opinion you need not choose between the two. A mask is not a man, Master Jason. It is a symbol. How one _uses _that symbol makes the man.”

They sit in silence for several minutes, Alfred working and Jason mulling it over. At last, he sighs and smirks at the old butler. “You know, for someone who disapproves, you have a lot of opinions.”

“At my age, I’m allowed, Master Jason. Now go set the table for four.”

“Four? Is B stayin’ tonight?”

_If he is, I’m _not_._

“No. But Miss Cassandra will be. She returns to Hong Kong tomorrow to tie up a few loose ends before returning here. I insisted that she have a decent meal and sleep before heading to the airport in the morning.”

“And…uh…Blondie?”

“I heard a certain Mrs. Grayson requires her talents this evening.”

⁂

And so Jason finds himself back to patrolling several nights a week, once more striking fear into the hearts of criminals.

Albeit behind a different mask than he’s used to. 

There are provisos, of course, as Batman informed him in his usual detached way down in the cave. No guns, no lethal force and he can’t spend all of his time in Crime Alley.

“It would be too much of a coincidence given Red Hood’s demise.”

“Bullshit!” Jason had argued. “No one’s patrollin’ that part of town anymore. And I’m pretty sure people have noticed Red Robin ain’t even pokin’ his nose in either.”

“Red Robin has made appearances along his usual routes,” Batman dismissed.

“What? How?”

“Black Bat has agreed to take on the mantle every week or so. She is closest to Tim’s height and weight. We can’t have anyone connect Tim’s injury and Red Robin’s disappearance.”

“But what about—?”

“Signal has been monitoring the East End. He is as invested in the well-being of neighborhoods as you are. I have every confidence he can handle it during your absence.”

“Must be nice to have your confidence. Wonder what that’s like?”

“If you didn’t have my confidence, you would not be getting this suit,” Batman replied shortly and turned back to the computer. “If you continue your investigation into the changes in Gotham’s underworld, do so in a way that doesn’t connect Wingman to Red Hood.”

_Damn it, even when he’s trying to make a gesture, he’s still an ass about it. _

“Nah, I figured I’d go shout it from the rooftops,” Jason shot back sarcastically and stalked away before he could get into an actual fight with the man. “Next thing, he’s gonna tell me not to say anything to Tim…”

Which, _obviously? _They decided early on not to tell him anything Bat-related while he’s recovering. 

The problem is, Tim doesn’t seem any closer to remembering _anything_.

Every week that passes, even after the surprising instance of Tim trying to sing _Happy Birthday_ to Dick (which, okay, Jason was also relieved at that, but only because he’s been watching how frustrated Tim’s been with his music therapy) he shows no sign of knowing anything about Tim Drake or Red Robin or any of it.

It’s a cause for concern, and not only because of Mission related reasons.

Gillian Sato keeps visiting the manor every week.

Jason might not be on great terms with Tim—might be awkward as hell around him—but he’s even less so with her. Alfred texts him when she comes over, and Jason does his best to get to the manor as soon as he can. He’s more effective at looming over her on these ‘visits’ than Dick is. And she can’t object to his presence, even when he interrupts her well-meaning-but-leading questions. The ambiguous kind, where Tim’s current yes-no answers might land him in a sea of trouble.

“You don’t trust social workers, do you, Mr. Kane?” she asks him one day when he interrupts every question she asks, wanting to qualify statements or elaboration to an almost pedantic degree.

Tim seems to have fallen asleep again—pale and exhausted from darting his eyes between Jason and Sato’s less-than-veiled disagreement. Across the room, sitting cross-legged and pretending to be absorbed in a video game, Damian looks like he’s ready to jump into action if need be.

“Lady, there ain’t no one in this house you people haven’t screwed over.”

“But not you,” she pries, eyes keen. “According to your record, family took you in. Your cousins, was it? Kate Kane and her father?”

(He’s still not sure how Barbara got Batwoman to sign off on that; Kate never really liked him.)

“Yeah, but not before I lived on the streets a few months. And I don’t regret the experience one bit since it meant I didn’t get fucked over by the system.”

“That isn’t in your file.”

“Last time I checked, they seal juvenile records,” Damian speaks up, tone sharp. “Is there a reason you’re looking into him when you’re assigned to Drake’s case? Or so you allege.”

“I hardly see how it’s your concern,” she tells the boy. “Although on that note, is there a reason you refer to your brother by his last name? Some lingering resentments, perhaps, that gave way to violence?”

Damian’s eyes narrow, a delicate angry flush that’s almost imperceptible in his dark cheeks. “If you believe I intend to share any information with you, you presume your self-importance to be above his legal rights to privacy. I can assure you, as much as he irks me, Drake is far above you in the status quo.”

_Huh_._ Has the bat brat _ever_ said anything nice about Tim?_

Damian’s implication would insult most people, but the woman doesn’t even blink. “If these are the manners Mr. Wayne instills in his children, it seems my office’s concerns are valid.”

“Manners are not requisite indicators of good parental care,” Damian retorts. “But again, _I_ am not the subject of your inquiry, am I?”

They stare at each other a beat before Sato looks away with a sniff. “I just want to have all the facts.”

Jason narrows his eyes and folds his arms over his chest, showing off his mark which is already reacting to his proximity to Tim. It’s a less than subtle reminder her facts are irrelevant to him. He feels no guilt doing so since the damned mark’s caused him nothing but trouble so far. He should at least be able to use it to keep the kid from being hounded by social workers with axes to grind.

It has the desired effect. She purses her lips and scribbles something on her tablet with a stylus.

It would surprise him if whatever she writes is still there when she gets home; Babs can be vindictive even from a distance.

There’s a subtle clearing of the throat, and everyone glances over at Alfred.

“I fear it is getting late, and Master Timothy needs his rest,” he said. “If you would be so kind, Ms. Sato, I will escort you to your broom—_ahem_. Apologies. Your _car_.”

Jason and Damian both choke in surprise as Alfred gestures for her to follow him, even as Sato continues to appear unimpressed. Once they’re gone, they exchange looks.

“Did Alfred just break British-butler protocol and insult a guest?”

“Given the past few weeks, it does not surprise me he is beginning to crack,” Damian notes, frowning at Sato’s back as she leaves. “I don’t like her.”

“You don’t like anyone, that’s not unusual. But nah, I don’t think anyone likes her.”

_It’s like she’s being an asshole on purpose._

Damian folds his arms. “No. This woman is…she gives me an unpleasant feeling.”

“Aw, look at you all protective,” Jason teases, just resisting the urge to ruffle Damian’s hair. He enjoys having two hands, even if one of them has a soulmark emblazoned on it that complicates his life. “And here I thought you and Timbers didn’t get along.”

“Tt.” Damian looks away.

Jason goes back to sit beside Tim, picking up his book as he does so.

“This is,” Damian begins after a long pause, then stops, looking angry, though at what is anyone’s guess. At last, he clenches his fists and says, “This fate is…unworthy. For him.”

He doesn’t meet Jason’s gaze as he stalks off.

“Huh,” Jason says out loud, watching him. “See, now you _have_ to get better, so you can give him a hard time for being a secret sap.”

Where he’s been feigning sleep for the past ten minutes, Tim snorts.

⁂⁂⁂ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr (violetsmoak) for news regarding updates--or just to drop me a line :)


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which as time passes, Jay's not having an easy time coping with all this soulmate stuff, and Tim's still trying to figure everything out. And Alfred is his usual awesome self.

“Forget almost being assassinated, how did he not die just from tripping over something in the dark, or eating expired food?” Jason asks as he looks around the disaster zone that is Tim Drake’s apartment. There are takeout containers and empty coffee cups covering every surface, and clothing soiled with dirt and blood and what looks like sewer sludge strewn across the floor. Packaging and bubble wrap twist around the legs of tables and extension cables create startlingly effective tripwire traps. “Can’t you people afford a maid service?”

“Surely even you aren’t so thick that you don’t understand why that would be a bad idea,” Damian points out as he walks in behind him, carrying several large boxes from the local hardware depot. As he deposits them, he surveys the apartment with something more like horror than disgust. “_This_ is the residence of the man my grandfather considers his equal?”

“He’s not usually this bad,” Dick says with a sigh as he closes the door behind him with one hand and deposits his own burden of packages. His eyes rove across the open concept living area with a worried expression. “I was here like three weeks ago and it was spotless. I mean, his room was a disaster zone, but that’s just Tim. Messy genius, you know?”

“If this is how he lives, perhaps the social workers are correct that he needs a more qualified minder.”

Dick ignores that. “I don’t get it. It’s like he just gave up. What the hell happened?”

Jason remains quiet; he has a nasty suspicion he knows exactly what made Tim stop caring.

_Whatever, I’m making up for it now, aren’t I? In fucking _spades_…_

He’s been avoiding Tim’s apartment for weeks now, stubbornly squatting in different buildings every night or shelling out for a motel when he wants an actual bed or shower. But the last few days he found several itching bites on his skin, and hell _no_. He swore when Bruce took him in, he was done with bedbugs and lice and any other critter that can be found in questionably cleaned bedding.

As luck would have it, Dick was on his way over here with Damian to install handicap bars in Tim’s bathroom and check the place over for any other chores or tasks that needed doing.

“I still don’t see the point of that,” Jason says, nodding at the boxes of tools and components. “In what universe do you see B letting Tim leave the manor any time in the next year or so? Even when he gets his memories back.”

“It’s a compliance thing,” Dick informs him. “Now that Tim’s making actual strides in recovery, social services will be coming at some point to check that everything is set up for his rehabilitation if he chooses to come here. If it’s not done, it won’t look good.”

“That chick’s still pushing this?”

“Oh yeah. She keeps coming up with new requirements she insists be filled. Independent psych evaluations, bi-monthly physicals performed by state doctors—she even wants him to attend mandatory rehabilitation at some government facility in Blüdhaven.”

“What? Why there?”

“Aside from the fact Gotham’s mental health infrastructure is riddled with the criminally insane?”

“Fair…”

“Babs looked into her and it looks like Bruce had the right idea. Gillian Sato’s a nobody. Completely average in everything, trying to make a name in her department by going after a big fish. And you know that Bruce has been CPS’ great white whale since he took me in. You too.”

“I remember,” Jason says with a scowl.

It was shortly after he was taken in by Bruce. He had just started as Robin, was beginning to see Bruce and Alfred as _family_ and the manor as _home_. And then some do-gooder social worker with the ‘best intentions’ and a dislike of Brucie Wayne exploited a technicality that let her remove Jason from the Wayne household. The next weeks and months dragged Jason through such an emotional wringer that his already abundant trust issues increased by orders of magnitude. Even before he and Bruce started to butt heads later, Jason would never truly be at ease in the manor ever again.

Or anywhere, really.

People let you down. People left. People could be taken away from you. These were the facts of life, and Jason vowed never to forget them again.

It’s yet another reason he’s so resistant to the idea of soulmates. Having one just makes it easier to be let down or to have them taken away. Hell, he’s seen that firsthand, hasn’t he? A simple errant bullet and he almost had to watch his die. He can’t even imagine what this whole ordeal would feel like if he was close to Tim.

Lost in his thoughts, it takes him a moment to realize Dick is still talking.

“…her higher-ups barely know anything about her. Most of them are willing to let this thing with Tim go, but she’s the one who keeps pushing it. Poking for loopholes whenever she hits a new roadblock.”

“So have Barbie make her go away,” Jason suggests.

“And give support to the idea Bruce Wayne is above the law because of his money?” Dick challenges. “That would put a lot more attention on the issue than anyone wants. For now, we just play it the legal way. Once Tim’s eighteen, she’ll have lost a major avenue to exploit.”

“Which means you guys have to put up with her trying to wrap you in red tape for the next four months at least.”

“This is ridiculous,” Damian mutters.

“I know.”

“Not that—although yes, this farce of legal compliance is a waste of everyone’s time. But I’m talking about how no one has done anything about Drake’s condition other than wring their hands.”

“Excuse me?!”

“If we’re ever going to go on with our lives, he must be fixed, and faster than some useless stretching is going to do.”

“Kid, how exactly do you think your dad got back to fighting condition after Bane broke his back?” Jason questions. “‘Useless stretching’ was a big part of it.”

“And a hell of a lot of drive,” Dick adds. “Which Tim doesn’t really have enough of right now. I mean, I know he wants to get better, but it’s not the same as if he knew who he was.”

“Exactly. He would already be walking, I’m sure,” Damian nods. “Then you’re in agreement with me.”

“Well, yeah—wait. What am I agreeing with?” Dick asks, suspicious.

“Through my observations of the situation, I have determined that Drake is unlikely to ever regain full functionality or his memory. The easiest way to fix this would be a Lazarus Pit. I happen to know of one in Cuba.”

“Holy _no_ Batman!” Dick cries. “Did you forget what happened when _I_ tried doing that for Bruce?”

“It would be different in this case, since we know for sure that it’s Drake and not a decoy,” Damian argues. “At least, the body bit. And Todd recovered from brain damage thanks to the Pit.” He considers Jason. “Well. More or less. I did not know you before, therefore I have no basis of comparison.”

“And you also missed the murderous rampage that happened afterward,” Jason growls. “Not being able to control yourself sucks. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

_Even Tim. _

Especially_ not Tim._

“If anyone possesses the ability to fight off the effects of the Lazarus Pit, it’s Drake,” Damian insists. “He does not have the same latent anger or violent tendencies as Todd’s files say he had.”

“Hey, stay the hell out of my business!”

“Tim might not be as violent as Jason is or was—”

“Screw you, Dickhead.”

“—but he definitely has the capacity for anger. And as it is, he suffers from severe depression,” Dick informs them soberly. “To the point where he’s considered suicide at least once in the past.”

Damian and Jason’s eyes snap to his face.

“_What_?” Jason demands.

“That was not in his file.”

“Because he didn’t want it there,” Dick tells them, weary. “In case someone tried to use it against him.”

“Don’t you think that’s kind of fucking important to people know about?” Jason demands. “Especially if they have to go out in the field with him?”

He’s having a sudden flashback to the night when everything came out into the open, when he swooped in to save Tim from a fall that he should have been able to divert himself.

_Shit. What if that _wasn’t_ an accident like I thought?_

“We all have things in our history we don’t want in the files,” Dick reminds them, his face becoming hard for a moment as if he’s remembering something. Then he shakes it off. “Tim’s been dealing with it. He’s on medication, he reaches out when it gets bad…but it’s an ongoing process. I don’t need to tell you guys that.”

“If he didn’t want anyone knowing, he’s going to be pissed you tattled.”

“I’m only speaking up so Damian understands what a bad idea it would be to put Tim in a Lazarus Pit. Depression on top of Pit madness? I don’t want to even think about what he might do.”

_Not to mention bringing him anywhere near where Ra’s might pop up is asking for trouble, especially since he can’t fight him off right now._

“So, you are insisting on this waiting nonsense,” Damian concludes, looking frustrated.

“It’s all we can do for now, Little D.”

The kid’s expression remains stormy.

⁂

Damian strides into Tim’s bedroom one morning, wearing a determined expression and followed by his gigantic dog, Titus.

Tim feels a little wary, not so much because of the intimidating canine, but because his younger brother rarely comes near him voluntarily.

“I have read in numerous medical journals the benefits of animal companions in increasing the likelihood of recovery from traumatic brain injuries,” he announces. “Since Father is adamant, we are not getting another dog, I have decided to allow you to spend time with Titus while I am engaged in my studies. I am confident it will contribute to improvement in your condition.” He gestures at the dog. “Titus, stay with Drake. I shall collect you later.”

Then he nods to himself, as if concluding business, and leaves the room.

Tim stares after him, utterly bewildered at the turn of events. Titus watches the boy go, whines for a moment, and then looks over his shoulder at Tim, head cocked to one side as if wondering what that was all about.

All he can do is shrug, which he feels ridiculous about a moment later because Titus is a dog and has a limited understanding (even if Damian speaks to him as if he’s a human being). Still, a beat later, the dog wanders over to Tim’s bed, and rests his head upon the mattress, gazing up at Tim with curious eyes, his tail wagging somewhat.

Slowly, Tim reaches out with his right hand and places it on the dog’s head, causing the tail-wagging to speed up, and scratches him behind the ears.

Titus thus becomes a semi-permanent element of Tim’s recovery process. Damian comes by every morning to drop the dog off as if he’s a parent leaving a child at daycare or school and leaves for several hours. Titus then goes to Tim for obligatory head-pats and only lets up when it becomes clear Tim’s energy is flagging. Even then, he doesn’t go anywhere, simply curling up beside Tim’s bed. When Damian returns, he pokes his head in, nods again, and gestures for the dog to depart with him.

The whole situation is bizarre, but Tim thinks it’s the way Damian expresses worry.

Having Titus around has the added benefit of intimidating Gillian Sato whenever she comes for one of her ‘visits’. Jay can’t always make it there before she does, and she somehow manages to insist on meeting with Tim privately to avoid bias (which he doesn’t understand). Those visits when Jay isn’t present are as short as possible to comply with her wishes, but they’re long enough that Tim is always exhausted and confused at their end. With Titus there, he’s at least a bit more comfortable; the dog appears to sense when his anxiety is climbing or when Ms. Sato says something that makes him uncomfortable.

“It’s rather concerning, Timothy,” she tells him in a voice meant to be kind. “Considering all the resources Mr. Wayne has at his disposal, that he insists you recover here. Instead of in a facility specifically created to rehabilitate TBI patients. It’s almost as if he’s trying to keep you here under his watchful eye.” She leans forward, expression worrying. “You want to get better as soon as possible, don’t you?”

Before Tim can try to parse out exactly what she’s asking him (because he knows somehow the words don’t match her intention), Titus hackles raise, and he begins to growl.

Almost that same instant, Alfred will sweep in and declare that Tim is quite tired today, perhaps they can continue this interview some other time?

Tim wonders if he isn’t standing at the door eavesdropping, even though somehow, he can’t reconcile that image in his head.

Depending on the time of day that Ms. Sato arranges her ‘visit’, the family member that sits with him changes. He much prefers when it’s Jay—he’s the only one whose presence helps Tim calm down quickly after such an interview—but he’s learning to appreciate and trust everyone else in his family.

He’s come a long way since waking up in the hospital and seeing nothing but a bunch of strangers.

Bruce continues to make efforts to spend time with Tim when he wakes up in the mornings. In addition to the sudoku and crossword puzzles, which Tim has started trying to do himself in his spare time, Bruce has started playing other games with him. First Go Fish, and later Memory.

They were games suggested by Dr. Thrussell to help with Tim’s mental rehabilitation, but it turns out playing with Bruce is fun. His expression is awfully serious for what Tim knows are simple children’s games, but he always becomes exceedingly pleased when Tim makes a correct guess.

Dick, who Tim has learned from Alfred is a police officer, is not always around due to his work shifts being somewhat irregular, but when he is, he goes out of his way to help Tim with whatever he might need. It’s both touching and overwhelming; Tim likes Dick, but he feels the same amount of mental exhaustion when he leaves as he does when Ms. Sato does.

_How does one person have that much energy?_

His favorites besides Jay, are Cassandra and Stephanie.

Steph is nice, as well. She’s affectionate with him, has a good sense of humor, and unlike everyone else who seems wary about touching Tim beyond helping him groom himself or for physio, she’s very tactile.

And she smells nice.

He feels a level of comfort with her that is like when he’s with Jay, which he supposes is because they used to date before she and Cass discovered they were soulmates. Perhaps it’s why he doesn’t question her presence in his life the way he still does sometimes with Bruce or Dick or Damian.

And then there’s Cassandra, who’s just…amazing.

Because she’s like him, somehow.

There’s intelligence in her eyes, but she has trouble getting the words out just like he does. When she sees him struggling with his brain to mouth disconnect, she looks empathetic and he knows it’s not pity or guilt.

The latter is a look he’s started to recognize in Jay, and he doesn’t like it.

He wonders if whatever makes him look like that is the reason he doesn’t get along with the rest of the family. He wishes he could ask, though he suspects even if he could, he wouldn’t get a straight answer.

He’s not sure if that’s normal for this family, or if it’s just another attempt to keep from upsetting Tim. Ever since he started to improve, everyone seems to be wanting to keep him occupied and entertained. Sometimes it’s fun—like today, with Steph egging him on while playing Candy Crush—and other times, it’s just…

_Exhausting_.

His convalescence aside, Tim has noticed there are times when he feels exhausted and strained for reasons other than his injury. He doesn’t know where those feelings come from, just that he dislikes them.

⁂

One evening, a little over three months following the shooting, Jason shuffles into the manor and wonders how this became routine for him.

It should worry him; how easy it’s been to slip back into the habit of being greeted by Alfred. Into toeing off his boots in the entrance closest and loitering in the kitchen to see if there’s anything left over from lunch or dinner.

It’s deceptively simple to fall into the mental trap of calling this place home again, which is why he never lets himself stay longer than a few hours. Even when Alfred keeps offering to make up a guest room or tries to tempt him with homemade scones for breakfast the next morning.

(He can’t go near his old room, the mausoleum to shattered dreams and stolen childhood.)

Jason’s usual arguments against that are quieter right now, his mind on what Damian said the other day: that no one is trying to help Tim.

In the strictest sense, the sentiment is bullshit; everyone in the Family has been bending over backward trying to make his rehabilitation priority, to protect him from two-faced social workers and asshole paparazzi looking for a story. But there’s been no headway on the shooting, and he wonders if anyone else but him is still looking into it.

Which is stupid, because he knows for a fact that Bruce is a dog with a bone and won’t let any case go, let alone one where his kid got hurt.

_So why hasn’t he found anything yet?_

He knows from experience, both as Robin and Red Hood, that some cases take longer than others. Bruce spent an entire year investigating the Holiday killings before Jason got involved, and during their years together there were several ongoing cases that dragged for weeks and months before a break could be made.

There are some that remain unsolved to this day.

_But this is Tim, you’d think he’d be more motivated. Unless…_

Unless he _has _found something and just doesn’t want to share it because he thinks Jason’s going to go on a vengeful, murderous rampage.

He clenches his fists.

It wouldn’t be the first time that Bruce kept something from him or anyone else if he’s on a case he’s decided is his. He even keeps Dick out of the loop on stuff like that, and he’s the golden child.

Jason’s probably just being paranoid.

Except…

Except he learned paranoia from the best, and that paranoia isn’t always _just _paranoia, and if Bruce thinks he’ll react badly to something, of course he’s going to keep it from him. Which means they’re going to have a problem because this case isn’t going to get solved if they can’t share important information.

Instead of heading toward Tim’s bedroom, Jason changes course and makes a beeline for the Cave entrance in the study.

He reaches the bottom of the staircase just in time to see Nightwing and Robin peel out of the garage on two bikes. A cowl-free Batman is hunched over the computer, looking up something on the main screen, while the ones off to the sideshow various CCTV feeds from the Narrows, Tricorner and Burnley.

He catches flashes of Black Bat and Signal in the latter two, and scowls.

“I should be out there.”

“That’s not your concern right now,” Bruce replies without even turning around. “You should be upstairs with Tim.”

There’s a derisive snort at that, and Jason glances over to see Blondie balanced on her own bike, adjusting her hair beneath her cowl.

“Problem, Bat-chick?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t sound like nothin’.”

“Just seems like _certain_ people are easier to forgive than others.”

“Stephanie,” Bruce warns, still not looking at either of them.

“No, it’s fine,” she replies. “Let’s keep tiptoeing around the giant pink elephant in the room. And by giant pink elephant, I mean crime lord.”

“That what you’re goin’ with?” Jason challenges. “You’ve been stewin’ on that for three months, and you’re gonna give me grief over bullshit that’s over and done with?”

“Clearly it’s not over and done with.”

“If you’ve got a problem with me, strap on the steel tits and own up to what it’s really about.”

“Okay, fine!” Blondie hops off the bike to march forward, stopping a good foot away from him and shoving a finger at him. “You might be his soulmate, but don’t think that gets you off for all the crap you’ve pulled. Especially since you’ve _known_ this whole time.”

“What I know or knew is none of your business. But if you really want to have a competition about who hurt him most, my name ain’t the only one on the list.”

“Are you seriously trying to pull the ‘everyone else did it too so it’s okay’ defense?”

“No, I’m telling you to be careful in that fragile fucking glass house of yours.”

“Speaking of houses, how long are you going to keep playing house with Tim before you break his heart again? Are you going to do it right when he gets his memories back, or wait a few days for him to adjust and then drop him?”

“You think I’d be that big an asshole?”

“I _know_ you’re that big an asshole. And so did Tim,” she shoots back, merciless. “He told me you were dead.”

“I _was_ dead.”

“And then you weren’t. And he still always told that to anyone who asked. He knew whatever this is with you, it was never going to happen, but it also wasn’t going away. So, he was trying to move on. And if he’s smart—which we all know Tim is, memories or not—he’ll stick to that gut feeling. Because the longer he’s involved with you, the more hurt he’s going to be when you inevitably break his heart. If you were any kind of decent, you’d get the hell out of his life before he finishes imprinting on you like a baby chick.”

“That’s enough,” Bruce says, and this time he does turn around. “Stephanie, patrol.”

“I’m going,” she replies. “But not because you told me to.”

She stalks toward her bike, and after a few angry revs of the engine, speeds off out of the cave.

Bruce is still looking in Jason’s direction; he can feel the frown. “Provoking her isn’t helpful to anyone, least of all Tim.”

“What argument were you watching?” Jason shoots back. “If anyone’s provoking anyone else, it’s her. And I’m telling you now, B, if she wants a fight, I’ll give it to her. I’m putting up with enough crap because of this soulmate thing, I didn’t sign on to let Timbo’s pissed off ex-girlfriend take shots at me.”

“The lack of evidence in this case is frustrating everyone.”

Jason gives him a disbelieving look—there’s no way that Bruce can be so emotionally stunted that he can’t figure out what Blondie’s little tiff was all about.

_Then again…yes, he is_.

Rather than stew over Blondie’s accusations (and the fact that she’s got more of a point than he’d like), Jason decides to focus on what Bruce actually said.

“So you haven’t found anything on your end, either?”

He leans against the giant computer, keeping a conspicuous distance between him and Bruce, and trying not to feel awkward and naked without his helmet on. He doesn’t actually remember the last time he was down here and _not_ in uniform.

“No.”

“Really. Nothing? Not a single goddamn clue? This is all just some random person that decided to take the kid out?”

“It’s not the first time someone has attempted to assassinate Tim.”

“Yeah, but I heard about that, it was all planned for. _This_ wasn’t.”

“Hence the continued investigation.”

“Yeah, well, there’s no way you’ve been on the case this long and haven’t found something.”

Bruce is quiet for a moment and then nods. “Based on the lack of available evidence, whoever did this was a professional. Elite even.”

“No shit. We knew that from Day One.”

“I’ve since narrowed down a list of suspects from around the world, who have the capability of pulling this off.”

“And?”

“And they’re all either accounted for or dead.”

“So why do you look more constipated about this than usual? You’ve had harder cases with less evidence.”

“Almost all of these snipers were trained by David Cain.”

The name makes Jason tense. “He’s dead.”

“Yes. But before he died, he mentioned something to me. That there were others.”

“Others like Cass, you mean.”

“Hn.”

Jason grits his teeth. “So, your theory is some designer assassin Child o’ Cain decided to come to Gotham just to shoot Tim?”

“It’s not a theory. Just a possible connection. There’s too little evidence to support it.”

“Then what the hell are you spending the time on it for?” Jason demands. “If we’re going for wild conspiracy theories, why not an alternate universe or time travel? It’s just as easy to speculate someone came back in time to assassinate Tim or put him out of commission for whatever reason.”

“I won’t discount those theories either,” Bruce allows, because _of course_. “But in either situation, anyone coming here for Tim specifically would likely be enhanced to survive whatever means brought them here.”

“Or it’s one of us.”

Bruce doesn’t meet his gaze, but there’s a subtle tensing of his shoulder muscles.

“I saw that,” Jason points out quietly. Bruce says nothing. “You think it would be me, don’t you?”

“I never said that.”

“If it were one of us, I’m the best marksman, so if it were anyone of ours to come back and put a bullet in his head, it’d be me.”

Bruce stands then, agitated. “You’re jumping to conclusions and letting your feelings cloud your judgment. This is only one of many theories, not even the one that’s most likely—”

“Except we both know that ain’t the case!” Jason snarls. “You know as well as I do, I’m probably the reason he got shot in the first place!”

“Jason—”

“I did this, B! I was in the middle of a pissing contest with some asshole moving in on my turf and Tim got caught in the crossfire. I might as well have pulled the trigger myself!”

“You did not cause Tim to be shot,” Bruce snaps.

“That’s not what you thought when it happened,” Jason reminds him bitterly.

“And I’ve since revised my opinion. I don’t believe this to be related to the contract that was put out on Red Hood.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s a totally glowing recommendation!”

“Whoever is after you obviously isn’t aware of your civilian identity, or they would still be pursuing you,” Bruce replies. “Going underground would only keep you safe for so long, and it’s been months. Whoever is targeting you may have been watching Red Hood, but they weren’t watching _you_. Therefore, the likelihood of Tim’s shooting having anything to do with your activities is low.”

“Seriously? That’s your explanation?”

“Jason,” Bruce sighs, and he’s pinching the bridge of his nose in a familiar gesture of exhaustion. “I’m trying to tell you I don’t think you’re responsible for this. Why are you fighting me on it?”

“Because nothing is ever that easy with you! And you’re usually the one driving the ‘Jason messes everything up’ bandwagon. Don’t tell me that’s changed all because I happen to be the kid’s soulmate.”

“That has nothing to do with it. I’ve already explained my reasoning, and it’s enough for me at the moment.” He fixes Jason with a calculating look that he doesn’t like. “The question is, why are you so determined to make it your fault?”

Jason opens his mouth to respond, but the words get stuck in his throat as he realizes he has no idea how to answer that.

Bruce continues. “Your behavior is inconsistent.”

“Hell, yes, it’s inconsistent! It’s been months and I still have no fucking idea how I’m supposed to deal with all of this!”

“Perhaps you should take some time,” the older man replies, turning his attention back to the computer. “Away from here.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “Away from _Tim,_ you mean.”

“He’s at the point where he is no longer uncomfortable with the rest of us, and you did make it clear that you only intended to stay by his side until his condition improved. I’m sure with some explanation you could take some time. It might help.”

“You just…that’s not even…”

Jason falters, not sure how to respond, because really, this is his get-out-of-jail-free card. He did say he was only going to stick around until Tim was doing better, and the kid _is_ doing better. He can get back to his search for the dick that got him to go to ground, can get back to living his life the way he wants it and not based around a convalescent’s schedule.

But the idea of it just now, makes him feel queasy, like he’s running a dirty deal.

And on top of that, it _bothers_ him that while Bruce is certain he’s not responsible for Tim’s injury, he still obviously has an issue with the fact they’re soulmates.

It shouldn’t bother him.

It _absolutely_ should not bother him.

And yet.

“You’re a fucking piece of work, you know that?” he snaps, and heads right back up the stairs, mind racing and unable to settle on a single conflicted thought.

Upon reaching the study he finds Alfred on his way in, a tray of tea and sandwiches in hand. The older man takes one look at him and purses his lips, and puts down his burden.

“From your expression, I suspect Master Bruce will be sulking too much the rest of the evening to be interested in dinner.”

“Like I care,” Jason grunts, slamming the false front of the clock entrance closed.

“Were that the case, you would not be damaging the furniture.”

Jason scowls, though it’s somewhat tempered when Alfred offers him the sandwiches he was obviously about to bring down to Bruce.

He takes a petty satisfaction in polishing off every bit of food and tea while Alfred pretends to busy himself with tidying the already pristine study. Although he’s clearly remaining nearby should Jason need him, he doesn’t try to force a conversation.

_How does he _always_ know…?_

Jason surprises himself when he’s the one to break the silence. “Why the hell does this soulmate shit have to be so complicated? Everyone else just _gets_ it, and I just want to jump out of my fucking skin because it’s making me crazy.”

For once, Alfred doesn’t comment on his language.

“As I understand it, you have never had another person with whom you could confide about this before. You had not manifested your mark when you first came to us, and Master Bruce does tend to avoid matters of the heart and soul except when necessity requires it.”

Jason grumbles, “No kidding.”

It’s not just now, either.

Years back, Bruce got through the sex talk with his usual emotionless, detached aplomb, but didn’t bother with any of the other stuff. Jason would have thought the guy had no heart at all, except he saw how invested he got with the women in his life that mattered.

“And I would imagine discussing it with Mr. Harper and Ms. Anders has not helped, given the substantial difference in circumstances.”

“You got that right…”

“Then perhaps I might offer my own understandings if only to provide another perspective.”

Jason shrugs. “Why not? It’s not like anyone else cares, other than to look like I kicked a puppy whenever I’m in the room with Tim.”

“It has always been my belief that one’s soulmate is the person who will have the most impact on one’s life.”

“So why isn’t mine the Joker?” Jason shoots back spitefully.

“As if that _creature_ ever had a soul,” Alfred scoffs.

“I’m just sayin’, your logic’s flawed.”

“And if you think a homicidal clown gets to claim to be the biggest impact on your life, I wash my hands of you. Do you realize you are scarcely 21 years old? You have an awful lot of life ahead of you to have that one moment, traumatic as it was, to define all of it. Perhaps in those first few months or years following the incident, yes. But you have a future, Master Jason. Soulmates are not just for the moment, but for the breadth of your lifespan. And however much strangeness we see on a regular basis in this world of ours, none of us have the ability to discern the future.”

“Except maybe Duke.”

“Except perhaps Master Duke,” Alfred allows, his mouth twitching somewhat. “But even that only comes in flashes. He cannot know it _all_. And neither can you.”

“Is that your convoluted way of telling me ‘chin up’?”

“That is my _convoluted_ way of telling you that you are not the only person to find the matter of soulmates difficult to navigate. And no one—not even Master Bruce—is expecting you to figure it all out right away.”

Jason snorts. “You sure about that?”

Alfred simply raises an eyebrow as if insulted by his pearls of wisdom being questioned, and Jason raises his hands in surrender.

_Never question Alfred. He knows everything._

Still, he suspects that Bruce will be getting a rather pointed talking-to in the near future. It makes him feel marginally better about the whole thing.

“Now,” the older man continues in a businesslike tone, “Timothy is in the family room this afternoon. However, I would understand if you do not feel up to seeing him today and would be perfectly willing to make an excuse for your absence should you require it.”

Jason almost accepts the out, but then remembers Bruce making a similar suggestion—albeit with more suspect motives—and shakes his head.

“Nah,” he sighs. “Knowing Timbers, he’s been waiting up all day. Least I can do is say 'hi'.”

“Indeed,” Alfred agrees neutrally, but there’s a twinkle in his eye that suggests approval.

_As long as no one else decides to ambush me with their emotional crap today, it should be fine, _Jason decides, leaving the study and wandering down the hall.

⁂

Tim is sitting in the family room watching _Arranged_.

He spends most of his time there, either alone or with whatever member of the family is still at home that day. After so long being practically bedridden, he’s desperate to be anywhere that’s _not_ his bedroom.

Alfred wheels him out into the gardens whenever it’s not raining or damp or windy (which, being May, it almost always is), and he’s since enjoyed the sun on his face for the first time that he can remember. He also got to experience his apparent first sunburn, because it seems his skin is notoriously sensitive.

_Worth it though, to be outside. _

He shifts, sitting up on the couch in front of the large television. He’s surrounded by a staggering number of blankets and pillows; Tim’s not even sure he really needs them to support him anymore—he’s been sitting up on his own for a while—but Alfred insists it’s better safe than sorry.

Titus is lying on his feet, dozing but alert. Tim’s wheelchair stands beside the couch, with Alfred the Cat (Damian seems to not have much imagination when it comes to pet names) curled up on the seat. Occasionally he opens one eye as if to check on Tim, and then returns to sleep.

_He’s not a bad recovery-cat, I guess. _

On-screen, Cordelia de Vere and Bertram Montmorency get to know one another and discover they actually get along, being of complementary temperaments. They have undeniable chemistry and their dialog is full of witty diatribe and veiled insults that he can’t help enjoying. It’s much more interesting than what Cordelia had with her soulmate, which he agrees with Jay about. Tim’s not sure if it’s a better match than Bertram and Maurice, who the prince continues to see in secret. Meanwhile, Gerald seems to be getting along just fine, joining the army and vowing to build himself up to meet the standards of Cordelia’s parents. He doesn’t actually seem outwardly bothered by her absence, except for several sequences of him writing her love letters.

“Never mind a bullet, _this_ is the kind of crap that gives you brain damage,” a voice informs Tim, amused and somewhat mocking as usual.

Tim’s eyes snap instantly to Jay as he appears in the room, and he feels a smile break out on his face.

“Hi.”

It’s one of the words he’s been working on in therapy and can finally say it without having to mentally or actually hum through a children’s nursery rhyme song. It gives him a thrill of accomplishment, albeit one that pales at the thrill when Jason’s eyes widen in surprise, and then something that Tim imagines might be pride.

“Hi back,” he replies and glances around the room. The car glares up at him like he expects him to question or end his occupation of the space, but Jason simply throws himself down on the nearby easy chair—it’s the only piece of furniture free of pillows and blankets—and squints at the television. “I can’t believe you’re still watching this.”

Tim snorts and shoots Jason a wry look, mentally telegraphing his thoughts. _And what are you doing right now?_

“Don’t give me that, I’m humoring the invalid.”

“Uh-huh,” Tim grunts.

“That’s a lot of sarcasm for someone who can’t manage actual words yet.”

Tim doesn’t take Jason’s abrasive comments as an insult. Along with Steph, he is the only one that doesn’t try to coddle him. He talks to Tim the same way he talks to everyone else, which, like he’s equal to them even though his brain is making things hard for him right now.

Still, the reminder of his lack of verbosity directly on the heels of his recent accomplishments strikes something in Tim, something like annoyance. Something that suddenly wants to prove a point.

He frowns in effort, trying to line up thoughts and words and the movement of his mouth.

“This is seriously predictable,” Jason complains. “Obviously the writers are trying to set it up that he shows up again and sweeps her off her feet. Then the rich boy goes back to his boyfriend and watching all this is a total waste of time.” Tim doesn’t respond, and Jason glances over at him to gauge his reaction. Only to notice now that Tim is watching him instead of the show, mouth turned downward in a frown. “What?”

Tim’s lips part, then purse, and he makes a kind of humming noise in his throat, closing his eyes in concentration. He takes a deep breath and then utters a sound.

“_Ju…jjuh…juh-ay…”_

He blinks, somewhat surprised by himself. Jason seems to echo it. “Did you just…?”

Tim’s mouth quirks upward and he feels almost smug. Then, he slowly sounds out the word again. _“Ja-ay.”_

It’s slow and stilted, and his voice is raspy from disuse, but it’s _there_, decrying his enforced muteness.

Jay is sitting up ramrod straight now. “Holy shit, you’re trying to talk.”

The naked awe on his soulmate’s face makes him feel warm, and so Tim plods onward, ignoring the way sweat breaks out on the back of his neck or the way he feels a little dizzy.

“Th…than…kyuu…”

Jay’s expression appears to shutter, awe becoming confusion. “Uh…for what?”

“Sa…say…” Tim is panting a bit from the effort now.

“Hey, forget it, don’t push yourself,” Jason implores him, sitting up and making a pacifying gesture. “Three words is enough progress for—”

“Say-ved,” Tim interrupts doggedly. “Safe. Me. Heard…duh…di…_Dick_…say. You. Say-ved me.”

_There._

That was almost two full sentences. He knows they’re crude and basic and maybe not quite what he was trying to say, but he managed to communicate _on his own_ without blinking. It fills him with a buoyant glee, a bubbling temptation to laugh though he knows from experience that doing that would just make his head spin and throb.

He expects Jay to look proud again, happy or relieved—maybe even a sarcastic, teasing quip.

What he doesn’t expect is the wild gleam in Jay’s eye or the way the blood rushes from his cheeks. He looks like someone punched him, and then he’s standing, backing away.

“That…” He swallows. “I’ve got to…”

He doesn’t finish and instead turns and practically bolts from the room, leaving Tim staring after him in shocked dismay, wondering what just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Timmy. And just when he's starting to show some of his old spunk, too...
> 
> Things are heading for their first boiling point. Someone's got to knock some sense into Jay, either literally or metaphorically (who wants to take bets on who it will be?).

**Author's Note:**

> I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!
> 
> ❤️️ = I love this story!  
😳 = this was hot!  
💐 = thank you for sharing this  
🍵 = tea spilled  
🍬 = so sweet and fluffy!  
🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good!  
😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER  
😢 = you got me right in the feels
> 
> And, as always, check out my tumblr handler [violetsmoak ](https://violetsmoak.tumblr.com/)for more information about updates, or to just ask me questions, whether it's fic related or headcanon related or just general life-stuff!


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